Origin
by Sci-Fifan95
Summary: All things have a beginning.
1. Challenge

**This story started out at first as "Not The Story You're Looking For", but I have since scrapped that name and changed it to "Origin" as you can see. The reason for this is simple: I realized this could be far more than just a random story to write random things in. I'm turning this into a full story, although in a different way than my other projects.**

 **Here's how it works:  
**

 **1: Every chapter will be inspired by a word prompt that will be the title of the chapter.**

 **2: Each chapter (at least initially) will be from a different character's point of view, or a third person point-of-view of multiple main characters.**

 **3: No chapter (at least initially) may be set on any planet besides Cybertron and its moons.**

 **4: Chapters can focus on both canon characters and original characters; however, there will not be more than one consecutive chapter where an original character is the point-of-view character.**

 **5: Identities of characters will be kept vague for as long as possible. Most of the time I will outright say who a character is by the end of each chapter, but there will be some in which I purposefully leave their identity a mystery. When this happens, their identity are will be up to you, the reader, to guess.**

 **6: After their introduction (their own point-of-view chapter) no main character may make another appearance until every main character has made their debut. Cameos in chapters before their own chapter are allowed. Once all main characters have been given their point-of-view chapter, this rule will be made void.**

 **7:** **No chapter (be it an introduction chapter or otherwise) will exceed 5,000 words before the addition of author's notes.**

 **Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.**

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His helm was pounding. Vision spinning. Servos shaking. Tank lurching. His digits were slow to respond to his commands, and when they did they didn't grip with any strength. That, coupled with his pounding helm, made him feel like he was in a dream. A dream he couldn't control.

It was times like this, that Treads hated drinking games.

Treads' opponent downed another cube of high-grade in a single gulp, then slammed the cube down onto the table upside down. The crowd that had gathered around the competitors—made up of Praxians, Iaconians, and even one Seeker from Vos—cheered and looked at Treads expectantly.

This wasn't possible, Treads decided. There were already five turned over cubes in front of Treads, and he was losing to someone less than half his height and probably a sixth his mass! How could someone so small drink so _much?_

Not to be outdone, Treads forced himself to down the cube he gripped weakly. Then he reached out, grabbed another cube, and downed it as well. He felt dizzy from the rapid consumption of two cubes of high-grade, and it hurt his helm to listen to the rambunctious cheer the crowd gave, but he felt a certain satisfaction in turning over the cubes on his side of the table.

Treads' opponent looked down at the two cubes Treads just turned over, then looked up into Treads' optics. She—yes, he was struggling to keep up with a femme—had the audacity to look _amused_ by Treads' showing. She matched the two cubes Treads drank, and then did something that left Treads gaping in shock.

She drank _three more._

The crowd—already roaring when the femme matched Treads—went absolutely _insane_ as the femme topped his total and slammed each cube down with a giant grin on her faceplate. When she was finished, the femme leaned back in her chair and placed her pedes on the table, servos folded behind her helm as if to say, "Don't bother; I've already won."

Treads didn't appreciate that.

With the crowd roaring, Treads drank the first and second cubes he had to drink. He wavered at the third, servo shaking so much he almost dropped the cube. The room was _spinning_ , and his helm felt like a Laborer was taking a hammer to it. The crowd seemed so loud his audio receptors hurt. He couldn't make out a single word being shouted at him.

Across the table, the femme grinned again. A victorious grin. She knew he was on the edge of defeat.

The look she gave him stabbed at Treads' pride. He couldn't let this happen. Mechs were the ones who were supposed to drink lots of high-grade without a problem, not _femmes_. How was her tank big enough to store it all?!

Treads steeled himself, and downed the final cube. As he slammed it down to the table, he started to feel strange. Not like he had since his fourth cube—it was a different strange. The room stopped spinning, crowd going silent. His servos felt numb, and the killer processor ache pounding away at his helm dulled. He felt like everything had slowed down. Almost stopped. As if that moment were a monumental occasion in his life, and his CPU was making sure it recorded it with perfect clarity.

The moment ended when Treads realized he was slowly— _ever_ so slowly—tipping backward. He tried to right himself, but he found his frame wasn't responding. He was frozen in place, helpless to do anything as he slowly fell back like a falling statue on a low gravity world.

In a way, it was fun. Well, it _would_ have been fun, had him falling over not meant he was about to lose a drinking game to a femme.

The mechs at HQ were _never_ going to let him live this down.

Treads hit the floor, and then it all went black for him.

A mixture of groans and cheers rose up from the gathered crowd, as mechs and femmes either won or lost their bets on the game. Those that bet on the femme collected their wins, with a few winners tossing some of their newly-earned Shanix chits in front of the winner.

Eventually, a few of Treads' friends gathered the overcharged mech and left. The crowd dispersed after that, and returned to their own tables on the sixth level of Maccadam's Old Oil House, leaving the femme to count up the chits left for her. She counted forty-two chits in all, and they varied in denominations. They totaled up to one hundred and ninety-one. Not bad, but not great—she'd need more next cycle.

The femme was just beginning to pocket her chits, when she sensed someone standing next to her. She looked up.

The person standing next to her was a mech. A large mech. Bigger than Treads, and even more solidly built. His red and gunmetal grey armor was covered in scars, and two large cannons were attached to his crossed servos.

"You have a sub-space canister." The mech's voice was gravelly and blunt in tone.

The femme smiled and gave the mech an innocent look that covered up the mischief in her optics. Then she rested her chin in a palm, leaning forward as if in interest, subtly using her looks to hide her thoughts. "I really have no idea what you're talking about."

The mech scoffed, not buying the bluff. "Don't play coy with me—I know you have one. You're too small to consume that much high-grade. You're hiding the canister at roof of your mouth. Every time you went to take a drink, you paused long enough to activate it with your tongue and let the high-grade fall into it. When you finished _drinking_ , you paused again to close the canister. Leaving that mech overcharged, and you perfectly sober."

The femme's smile faded, knowing she had been found out. She reached in her mouth and detached the small canister she was hiding, placing it on the table and showing the mech he was right. However, her optics remained innocent, with that playful look hidden in their depths. "It seems _someone_ was watching me quite... _C_ _losely._ "

The mech grunted, scared faceplate set in a frown. "I didn't come here to flirt; I came over to let you know that I know, and if I know, someone who lost Shanix could know, too."

That made the femme break optic contact, glancing around at the other tables for signs of mechs or femmes watching her. She found none looking in her or the mech's direction. She looked back at the mech. "Well, if any of them do know, they should think twice before coming back and trying to steal their money back. I challenged Treads to see who could 'Turn over the most cubes.' I didn't say we had to _drink_ any of them. Technically, I did nothing wrong."

"And if any of them _do_ come back, they aren't gonna care about a technicality. What will ya do if then?"

A handle appeared at the femme's side. The mech glanced down and saw the faint outline of a handgun folded against her hip, grip exposed. The rest of it was disguised from sight by her armor. Clever, he had to admit.

The handle disappeared, and the femme returned to putting her chits in her sub-space pockets. "I'll do what I need to, if it comes to that."

Another grunt came from the mech, the sound seeming to carry an impressed tone. "Fair, but if I were you, I'd make myself scarce while I could. No sense losing a place in Old Maccadam's when you can still pull that trick on someone else next cycle."

He was assuming she cared about returning here. A nice sentiment, but bots like her never frequented the same place twice. She'd never see the inside of this place again. "Hmm. Looks like that scared helm of yours hides a smart CPU. Wouldn't have expected that."

"And I wouldn't have expected a pretty faceplate like you would be a thief."

Even though the mech was just returning her jab, the femme felt a touch of guilt at hearing his observation. She pushed it aside. Not because she didn't want to acknowledge he was right, but because she couldn't afford second thoughts. "We all do what needs to be done to live another cycle."

Neither of them said anything while she continued pocketing her chits. When she grabbed her sub-space canister and stood to leave Maccadam's.

As she walked away, the mech felt a strange urgency compel him to ask, "Hey, if ya don't mind my asking… What's your name?"

The femme paused, temporarily stunned by the sudden question. She considered just continuing on into the crowd, but something rooted her in place. Like a magnet that wouldn't turn off until she answered.

She turned back to the mech, and for the first time noticed just how _sincere_ his optics had been the entire time they were speaking. No malice. No false sense she could trust him. Just a pure, honest look. That was rare in this time of the dying Golden Age.

How... Odd.

"My name's Chromia."

The mech put a servo to his chestplates. "Ironhide. I wish you luck, Chromia. Keep that gun on ya at all times."

"I do. I also keep another under my pillow at night." Chromia turned and left, blending quickly into the crowd.

Ironhide stared at the last place he'd seen the femme, nodding to himself. Chromia… That was a good name. A strong name. Fitting with the femme it went with. She had good sense to keep a firearm nearby all the time.

As he made his way back to his fellow soldiers in their corner booth, Ironhide idly wondered if he'd ever cross paths with that femme again. Something about her was intriguing to him.

Eh. He should just forget about her. Cybertron's massive population was complimented by an even larger planet, and thieves like Chromia were always on the move. The odds were very, _very_ low that he'd ever even hear about her again, let alone see her.

... But there was no harm in hoping.

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 **Chapter one is complete. Please, let me know what you thought.**

 **See you soon.**

 **See you soon.**


	2. Understand

***Totally did not make a mistake and copy list of rules from chapter 1) You saw nothing...**

 **Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.**

* * *

Security Drone Zetta-class APF-000421D fired its Model-A Shrapnel Riot Scattergun. A hundred molten flechettes were accelerated from the weapon's barrel, impacting three rioters at hypersonic speeds. One lost a servo. Another its pedes. The last—the focus of the shot—was shredded into approximately seventy-four pieces.

A rioter armed with a combat knife rushed forward as Zetta cycled the action of the Scattergun on its floating platform, but one of the security drones holding shields at the front of Zetta's formation slammed the rioter back. The rioter then fell under a hail of plasma-coated metal slugs fired from other drones.

" _Return to your homes—this sector is unsafe."_ Zetta's voice was flat, mechanical, and gender-neutral; it was neither deep nor high. Its designers found the tone perfect for giving commands.

The crowd continued to yell and chant a furious battle cry. They threw scrap metal, duraglass, and improvised weapons at Zetta and its subservient drones constantly; some even fired the occasional bullet from an illegal firearm. Someone from the crowd tossed an improvised incendiary device at Zetta. Its thin shell shattered against Zetta's armor, covering Zetta in blue flames for the third time since it was deployed to this location.

It waited for the flames scorching its armor to die, and then fired its Scattergun into the crowd again. They stood as one entity even as Zetta pacified two more of their number, the drones under its command pacifying five of their own.

Another incendiary bomb was thrown from somewhere in the crowd. This time, it landed short of Zetta and hit a lesser drone three rows in front of it. Its inferior armor couldn't withstand the blaze, and it fell to the ground in a melting heap.

Zetta had its platform move right over the melted remains of the drone, continuing the march it headed without pause. _"Return to your homes—this area is unsafe."_

A bullet fired from a rioter ricocheted off its armor. Zetta fired again, pacifying its attacker. Two more rioters took up the place of the pacified one, shouting and fighting even more furiously than before.

Zetta's basic processor could not comprehend the motives of the rioters. They were against superior combatants using superior weaponry and armor, and they behaved as if they were winning the battle. According to the information installed into Zetta's battle computer, they should have scattered as soon as one of their number was pacified. Survival was the chief concern of sentient beings, and they continued to stand and fall against Zetta and its drones.

It did not understand why they did not flee.

A group of larger rioters broke rank with the crowd. In their servos, they carried makeshift shields made from the sides of waste containers. Zetta's drones focused fire as they were programmed, but the primitive shields of the large rioters absorbed the bullets. Within approximately four point four micro-klicks, they had reached the front line of security drones.

The shield-wielding drones tried to push them back, but the rioters were too massive and had too much momentum to stop. They crashed against the drone line, knocking drones off their pedes and crushing their helms under stolen construction hammers they held in their free servos.

Without a shield wall in front of them, the other ranks of drones were left vulnerable. The rioters ran forward, swinging their hammers at whatever drone they saw. Nine drones fell within five point one micro-klicks of the shield wall breaking. Twenty more were deactivated before the large rioters were pacified, and a new shield wall was created. But irreparable damage had been done to Zetta's formation.

With more than thirty drones inactive, their shield wall was thinner, leaving some drones permanently exposed. Zetta concluded this was the entire purpose of the rush, as the rioters deployed gear they had been holding back. Portable plasma cannons were brought to the front, supplied by the local criminal groups. The cannons decimated the exposed drones, melting through their armor effortlessly. Other rioters appeared on rooftops, firing down at Zetta's formation from above with military-grade rifles. Its drones fell by the dozens from their weapons, and the crowd on the ground roared with cheers.

The entire tone of the fight shifted.

Zetta left its floating platform and sent a command to a large, stealthed gunship hovering in place above the city.

 _ORDINANCE RESTRICTIONS: REMOVED._

Seven point nine micro-klicks later, Thunderstroke missiles started to strike targets Zetta was marking with its optic visor. One rooftop was targeted. Then another. And another. And another. Exactly twenty-eight Thunderstrokes were required to clear them all of rioters.

It was only when they saw the rooftops exploding that the crowd on the ground at last started to break apart. Even then some stayed behind, firing madly and randomly while their fellow rioters retreated. They fired until Zetta marked them with its visor and commanded Thunderstrokes to fall.

It did not understand why were willing to be pacified while others fled.

The crowd fully dispersed, leaving Zetta and its remaining drones the street's lone occupants. It was deathly quiet without the sound of gunfire.

Zetta set about creating a perimeter around their location. Once the proper drones were in place—or had been deployed from the gunship—Zetta contacted the Constable. _"The situation has been pacified."_

" _About time,"_ said the Constable irritably. _"I'll be arriving soon with an associate. Be sure to have the streets cleaned by the time we're there."_

Zetta's computer searched for any reference the Constable had made regarding an associate the last time Zetta had spoken to him. It found no information, but did as it was commanded.

A private shuttle appeared in the sky exactly six klicks later. It landed in the middle of the street, the most secure zone Zetta's drones had created, and the Constable walked out of a side door.

The Constable was a small mech—twenty-four feet shorter than Zetta's forty-foot chassis. He was built weakly, his intelligent orange optics somehow went with his dull yellow armor.

A second mech stepped out of the shuttle. He was taller than the Constable, but still shorter than Zetta. His calm blue optics seemed out of place with his jagged red armor. Zetta immediately marked him as a VIP.

"Well, this is it," said the Constable, spreading his servos out to gesture to the city around them. "What do you think?"

The other mech looked up and down the street, looking at the run down buildings, damaged roads, and lack of people. "I think Honix has seen better cycles."

The Constable laughed. "That it has. Which is why it's _perfect_ for our operation."

"Why?"

"Think about it. Everyone around here's poor, desperate; starving for an opportunity. We can give them that." The Constable pointed at the assortment of small buildings in disrepair. "We can level those there, and build a retreat or two for the Nobles." He pointed at one of the larger buildings, opposite the smaller ones. "And that one's sitting on the largest energon deposit this side of Protilhex. We turn that place into a refinery, and _boom!_ We'll be sitting on piles of Shanix!"

The other mech hummed in thought. "What about risk? Locals are _always_ upset when we move operations into their area, and this time we'd be forcing many out of their homes. What is being done about them?"

The Constable chuckled and gestured to the drones around he and the other mech. "Look around you. _This_ is what's being done. Security drones—my best inventions yet." He pointed at Zetta. "And that one? That's one of my command units for the others."

The second mech was interested, and stepped closer to Zetta. "Interesting. Does it have any glitches or problems you need to work through?"

"No, no. Quite reliable. Know those troublemakers out at Helax?"

"Yes."

"This is the unit that broke them."

The unnamed mech's optic ridges rose, and he looked at Zetta in a new light. "How did it do that?"

"Good armor. Good aim. And lots of air support."

"My Phantoms are working out for you, then?"

"Oh, very much. When I pair one or two of them up with these ground units, local populations are brought peace by being… Pacified. Isn't that right, Command Unit?"

"Area is secure, Constable. All threats are pacified," Zetta said automatically.

The second mech looked confused. "'Constable'?"

"All of my drones believe themselves as Enforcers. I programmed them to see me as their Constable, and all my associates as VIPs. Everything else is just an 'It' to them. It's easier for their processors to see the locals—or anyone else I deem necessary—to be a thing rather than a person."

"Fascinating. Most fascinating. I may have to buy some of these from you."

"And I may give you a discount."

The two mechs shared a chuckle, and the second one held out his servo. "If these forces are what keeps my investments safe, I think we have a deal, my old friend."

The Constable readily shook the VIPs servo with another laugh. "Then let's go back to my penthouse and sign some documents. Command Unit."

Zetta straightened.

"Build up a more secure perimeter in this area. If need be, level a building or two to make way for an eventual base of operations."

"Yes, Constable."

The Constable and the VIP reentered the shuttle and took off.

Once they left, Zetta sent electronic commands to a number of drones to reinforce the existing perimeter. Then it called in more reinforcements from the gunship, and called for another gunship to bring explosives and construction materials from Headquarters.

It stood in place after sending its commands. Not because it was waiting for a command, but because its computer was having trouble analyzing the Constable's words.

It did as it was told without fail, regardless of the damage done to it or its drones. When it finished carrying out orders and restoring peace to areas, it analyzed its actions to find items of interest where it could improve efficiency. That was what it was programmed and told to do. But there was something… Different this time.

The rioters. They had not behaved like the rioters Zetta had fought before. Those had been criminals, murderers, and thugs; and they behaved just as Zetta was briefed.

The rioters on this mission had not behaved like the others; Zetta had noted that several times already. And yet, the Constable spoke of them as if they had acted like all the others. The Constable even punished the rioters in the same way as the others: building businesses on top of their stim and weapon labs. Why? Was that line of thought more efficient, or did the Constable know more than it did?

Zetta looked at all the buildings and streets, particularly where it had instructed its drones to move the pacified rioters. Had the Constable known the rioters were different, or was he not aware? Did the Constable determine the appropriate course of action based on data, or how he ordered a previous riot treated? Was the decision to pacify a riot made as a last resort, or as a first?

It did not understand.

* * *

 **Another one done. Can't say I'm very happy about the ending, and its tone was darker than I intended, but I did enjoy writing this - it was fun.**

 **Let me know what you thought of this one, and I hope you enjoyed.**

 **Now if you'll excuse me, I have some more writing to do.**

 **See you soon.**


	3. Name

**Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.**

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The Mines of Kaon were hot, noisy, and dangerous.

They were made up from a series of tunnels, thousands in number, running under and around Kaon. Some tunnels were ancient and stretched for hundreds of kilometers, and were so tall even the strongest mech had no chance of hitting the ceiling with a thrown rock; others had been created mere cycles ago and weren't even tall enough for the shortest of mechs to stand in. Many of them twisted and coiled like cybersnakes, the foreman in charge of the tunnel going wherever the valuable ore veins took them and their their crews. Some were perfectly straight, their only change in direction occurring when miners made a side tunnel to clean out a particularly rich vein.

With the Mines covering so large an area—and no one tunnel being exactly like the others—the higher castes in charge of the Mines wisely organized their operations by quadrants. Each quadrant had its own Hub, a central location where ore, crews, equipment, and energon were transported, refined, or distributed.

The Hubs were the only parts of the Mines that stayed the same. Each one was a gigantic, semi-circular room with a ceiling so tall the lowest foundations of Kaon could be seen. The entrances to the Hub's main tunnels lined on the outer wall, all facing into the quadrant assigned to the Hub. One of the two straight walls in the Hub housed a refinery for any and all ore that were transported from the tunnels, while the other was dedicated to storage, Management offices, and crew quarters.

At the meeting point of both straight walls, there was a massive elevator that took refined meta;, energon, heavy machinery, and sometimes crews to and from the surface. A pair of fifty-foot-tall tunnels were on either side of the elevator—and they served as connections to the two nearest Hubs. Besides those two small tunnels, Hubs had no contact with each other.

D-16 observed everything in Hub A-114 from his spot atop the Shack Tower, a mound of ore processing by product the Miners of old had made into Hub A-114's largest collection of quarters.

Only twelve vorns old and already very large and possessing extreme physical strength, D-16 was built perfectly for the hard labor of the Mines. His silver armor sported many unhealed scars and dents, but he still had all his limbs and digits; many he knew could not say the same. That was a reason to smile.

In truth, D-16 would not have cared if he was just a spark and a helm. He had always been a happy and optimistic mech. Always smiling. Always telling jokes. Always finding something inspiring and wondrous in even the darkest situation. His behavior sometime irritated the veteran Miners, but that just made him want to find a way to make them happy, too.

The latest thing in Hub A-114 to awe D-16 were the chains of the ore elevator. They were just so… _old_ —he could tell just by looking at them. They had been forged before the Golden Age even began, at least according to A-2—the Chief Miner of A-114 and by far the oldest mech in all of the Hubs. That would make them generations upon generations more ancient than he was. And still they were strong and resolute. As old as the Hub itself. Maybe older. D-16 wondered if they had been forged underground, or at the Surface.

His spark pulse increased at the thought of the Surface. He did not remember it—he hadn't even been half a vorn old when he came to the Mines—but he dreamed and thought of it often. What was it like? Were the Cybertronians up there different than the ones down here? How big were their Hubs? Did they even have any? He wanted to know.

But he also felt a pang of loss when thinking of the Surface. The origin of it escaped him. It always had. He just felt like he'd… Lost something when he thought of it. He wasn't sure what.

"D-16!"

D-16 looked down at the open window just below him. A-2 was leaning out of it, his expression annoyed. The ancient mech was even taller in height and more heavily built than D-16 was, but his frame was heavily scarred even by Miner standards. His once-drab green armor was almost black from so many vorns of explosive residue build up. A crude claw built from scrap metal made up one of his servos, and a metal patch was welded over one optic, the casing behind it empty.

"Yes, mister A-2?" D-16 asked.

A-2 shook his helm, single remaining green optic showing his annoyance. "Acer, kid. My name's Acer. Keep tellin' ya that. Anyway, your crew's waitin' on ya."

"Already?! I just got up here."

"Ya've been up here three breems, kid. Break's over. Get back ta it!"

D-16 widened his optics. He'd been up here his entire break?! "Sorry, mister A-2! I'll be right down!"

He hurried to get down from his perch, but missed one of his grips. He slid backwards, clawing for a hold on the slick roof, and fell into the open air.

His downward descent came to a sudden stop as A-2 reached out and grabbed D-16's servo with his claw. "Hang on, kid—I got ya."

With only a small grunt, A-2 pulled the heavier D-16 up to and through the window. Despite being older than most of the tunnels in Hub A-114, A-2 was still as strong as the cycle he arrived.

D-16 let out a whoop as he was dropped to the floor. "That was _awesome!_ You totally saved me like it was nothing, mister A-2!"

A-2 let out an exasperated sigh. "Acer. My name's Acer."

D-16 shrugged, not seeing a difference between A-2 and what A-2 insisted everyone call him. D-16 never understood the appeal of names, and didn't understand why some Miners choose names that weren't of any tunnel in the Hub. How was anyone supposed to know where they worked?

A-2 sighed again. "Ya need to be careful where ya put your pedes, kid. Next time ya fall, I might not be able ta catch ya."

"Then I'll aim for the softer metals. Those will feel better to land in!"

A-2's single optic blinked at D-16, then the ancient Miner growled. "I don't have time for this. Come on."

He walked toward the Shack Tower's only elevator, located at the center of the top floor. D-16 followed the older mech without complaint. "What's the rush, mister A-2?"

"Our next shipment of the old E-19 demo charges was cancelled by Management's superiors. Instead, we've been ordered to use the new E-20 charges from now on. They just sent a full shipment from the Elevator."

They stepped into the elevator, and D-16 asked, "What's the problem with that?"

"What's the _problem?_ _Everything's_ the problem! E-20s have Red Energon in them, kid. Stuff's _bad news_. These E-20s are supposed to be 'Efficient' and 'Safe,' but the thing's are far more powerful than they need ta be, and unstable."

"Oh." D-16 was silent for a moment, watching the floors of Shack Tower slowly go by. Finally, he shrugged again. "Well, we'll just adjust to them. We're Miners, right? Nothing gets in our way!"

A-2 shook his helm. "Whatever ya say, kid. I just hope the warnings I've been givin' Management about the E-20s turn out ta be wrong."

They reached the bottom level of Shack Tower without taking on additional passengers, a rare event. Then they left Shack Tower and entered the Hub Proper, where miners and equipment were going in all directions.

"Ya crew's waitin' by the tram, kid," A-2 said, pointing his good servo at a waiting platform for the tram leading all the way to the end of D-16's tunnel—Tunnel-D. "Don't keep 'em waitin'."

D-16 nodded and went to join his crew, but A-2's claw grabbed onto his shoulder-joint before he could take a step forward.

"One last thing, kid." A-2 looked around conspiratorially, then leaned forward so he was speaking into D-16's audio receptor. "A few of my mechs are brewing up some high-grade over in A-2 when we're done with testin' the new charges. When ya shift's done, come by and I'll see if I can't get someone ta bring down its potency so its save for ya. Just don't tell anyone else, kid—I got ta keep people thinkin' I hate everyone."

D-16's faceplate broke out in a huge grin. "I won't tell anyone! Promise! See you later, mister A-2!" He broke free from A-2's grip and made for the tram.

"Acer! My name's Acer!"

D-16's laughter was lost in the sound of the crowd.

His crew was made up of two older mechs and one a vorn younger than him. The chief of the crew, along with being the explosives expert, was a dark red mech who stood a helm taller than D-16. He was harsh in what he expected from D-16 when out in the tunnels, but fair when out of them.

The next in line was a yellow mech, the largest of the group, who always carried a massive pickaxe wherever he went. Even when he recharged, his pickaxe would still be on his chestplates, and he didn't like it when other people touched it. He even talked to it like it was a person. A-2 said he took it everywhere because his CPU wasn't like A-2's or D-16's; it had suffered damage in a mining accident. D-16 didn't know what that meant.

The last mech was small and quiet, and grey in color. His grey optics were nearly emotionless, and were always shifting from one thing to another in a calculating gaze. D-16 had only heard him talk once since he came down to the mines three vorns ago.

His crew chief looked at D-16 as he approached, frown on his faceplate and servos crossed. "You're late, D-16."

D-16 stopped in front of the older mech. "Sorry, mister D-16—I got distracted." Since they all worked in Tunnel D-16, all of them had the same designation.

Chief D-16 huffed, annoyed. "It'd better. Let's move out, D-16s."

D-16 moved at Chief D-16's word, and they all boarded the tram along with several other mining crews. The tram accelerated forward after one of the other mining chiefs hit a button, its ancient metal wheels turning and groaning as it faithfully carried its passengers away from the pleasant sights of Hub A-114 and into Tunnel-D.

They passed by fifteen secondary tunnels that branched off from Tunnel-D, each unique and specializing in a different metal. When they approached the sixteenth Side Tunnel, Chief D-16 pressed the button that called for the tram to stop.

Sparks flew from the tram's rail as the brakes were applied. Everyone aboard was pushed forward as the tram deccelerated rapidly, but no one complained; they were all used to it.

As soon as the tram was fully stopped, Chief D-16 stood and gestured for the rest of the crew to follow. "Up ya get. We have work to do, D-16s."

After they had disembarked, the tram accelerated away further down the Tunnel. As it did, D-16 looked into his place of work—Side Tunnel D-16—and noticed lights were set up just a few hundred meters inside, with several crates and safety barricades stacked nearby. "We're not going to the back this cycle, mister D-16?"

Chief D-16 shook his helm and started for the lights. "No, we're not. A-2's orders: we're just doing some tests this cycle, trying out the new charges Management's bosses delivered. He doesn't want anything going wrong with them."

"Awe," D-16 whined as he followed. He liked going to the end of the tunnel. There was just something about it that excited and inspired him. With each foot they extracted, they were seeing a part of the planet that no one had seen before. How cool was that?!

Once they had reached the lights, the Chief pointed to one of the crates. "Open one of those up," he said to the largest of their group.

Big D-16 merely nodded and opened a crate with his pickaxe. Rubber-coated gel panels commonly used for packing valuable or fragile items filled the inside of the crate. Big D-16 picked up one of the panels, revealing a small, rectangular red explosives charge coated in a metal alloy.

D-16 thought the new explosives looked nice.

Chief D-16 stepped forward and took out the block of explosive, inspecting it. "Heavier than I was expecting it. Probably has an oxide from a few heavy metals inside. That'll put its detonation temperature at…" He counted with his digits, optics looking up at the top of the tunnel. "About three times our old stuff. Hard to keep that much heat up for long enough to make it go boom, and with this metal covering, it'll be next to impossible to know when something's been lit. I don't like it."

"Well, if they gave it to us, then they must think it'll make us better miners!" D-16 said. "We just need to prove them right!"

Chief D-16 shook his helm. "Were it so easy." A sigh escaped his lips, then his demeanor changed and he clapped his servos together. "Alright, D-16s—let's get to work. I want a test hole and safety barricades set up in the next half breem. We may be just running tests, but that doesn't mean we Miners get an easy cycle. Hop to it!"

D-16 rushed over to the boring machine to dig a test hole, while Big D-16 started picking up safety barricades. Silent D-16 pointed Big D-16 where to place the barricades, while Chief D-16 continuing examining the E-20 charges, using an old engineering tool to take samples.

After just fifteen klicks, everything was in place for the first test of the E-20 charges.

D-16 stood behind a safety barricade along with Silent D-16 and Big D-16. They were a hundred meters away from the test hole D-16 had made with the boring machine, watching as Chief D-16 placed an E-20 charge into the hole.

"Now according to my tests," Chief D-16 said, still preparing the charge. "Most of these charges are made up of non-explosive oxides—there's only half a kilogram of Red Energon in a single charge. However, given how unstable and powerful Red Energon is, we need to take this slowly. For that reason, we're starting this off with just one charge."

D-16 listened eagerly. Chief D-16 always talked while he was preparing explosives—something about keeping his nerves in check, according to him—but D-16 still always found it interesting to hear what he said. He just knew so much about explosives!

Chief D-16 finished preparing the explosive by carefully inserting a blasting cap into the charge. Then he made his way to the rest of them, letting an electric fuse roll out behind him. He reached the safety barricade and cut the fuse, attaching it to a detonator. "Any questions?"

"Do you think we'll find a Precursor in the wall _this_ time, mister D-16?"

"No. And stop asking that; those stories are for bitlits." Chief D-16 picked up the detonator. "Detonating in three… Two… O—"

An explosion rocked the tunnel.

They were all knocked clean off their pedes. D-16 fell heavily on his backplates, knocking his helm against the ground. His audio receptors were ringing, helm spinning, He had trouble thinking, but knew he hadn't been injured by the blast. That was a good thing!

D-16 picked himself up, audio receptors still ringing, and went to brush off the bits of metal and rock that had rained down on him from the explosi—

There was nothing on his armor. He looked up, and saw the area where the charge was located was still intact.

The explosion hadn't come from their side tunnel.

His hearing came back, and it was immediately filled with the blare of the emergency alarm.

The alarm reserved for mass-scale accidents.

What was happening?

"To the tram, D-16s! To the tram! We're evacuating _right now!_ " Chief D-16 yelled, bringing Silent D-16 to his pedes and helping Big D-16 find his pickaxe; he had dropped it when they were all knocked down and had nearly been in tears before Chief D-16 found it.

D-16 obeyed immediately and ran to tram, the rest of his crew not far behind. Chief D-16 hit the call button at the panel in front of their side tunnel, and they waited.

It took several klicks for the tram to appear from further down the Tunnel, loaded with well over a hundred mechs. Those already onboard reached out to help D-16's crew get on as fast as possible, then they continued on.

The tram stopped at each side tunnel that came before Side Tunnel 16, each stop bringing more crews onboard. By the time they were within sight of the Hub, the tram was more full than D-16 had ever seen it. D-16 felt relieved they were nearly out of the cramped tram.

Then they reached the Hub.

Black, acrid smoke was everywhere, in everything. It burned his optics and filled his nasil with the smell of burning minerals. Mechs were running in seemingly every direction, yelling orders and reports so quickly and loudly D-16 couldn't understand them. Crews directed mechs operating ancient fire-suppression vehicles, so many of them that D-16 was sure the hanger near Management where they were kept had been emptied.

But what drew D-16's attention the most, was where all the fire-suppression vehicles were going.

A Tunnel. One of the main ones. Red flames poured out of it like it was a gate to the Pit itself, so hot it hurt D-16 even from their tram.

It was Tunnel-A. A-2's tunnel.

D-16 fought back against the cry he wanted to let out. His young processor reasoned that the effort to fight the blaze was organized, and that such organization could have only come from A-2's command. Everyone in Hub A-114—even the oldest and most senior members of Management—respected A-2 and allowed him extensive command of the Miners. No one else could gather them together like A-2.

The tram stopped, and they all stepped off.

Before they had gone far, Chief D-16 stopped a mech carrying a canister of liquid used by the fire-suppression vehicles. "What happened to A-Tunnel?" Despite the fact he was yelling as loudly as he could, D-16 barely heard his words—the roar of the flames sucked the sound out of the air.

The mech shook his helm. "Don't know! There was some kind of explosion. A big one. We think someone in the Tunnel messed up while they were preparing one of those new demo charges. Blew 'em all at once!"

D-16 froze. A-2's crew had been testing the E-20 charges…

"What can my crew and I do?" Shouted Chief D-16. "Where do you want us?"

"Don't know!"

"If you don't know, we'll ask someone who does. Where's A-2?"

The mech gave Chief D-16 a look, and gazed sadly into the flames.

D-16 felt dread grab at him, smothering him in its dark embrace. But he denied it. The mech had to be wrong, D-16 thought. A-2 couldn't be in there. He _couldn't_ be! A-2 was fine! He was!

"No. No you're wrong," D-16 said, not entirely of his own will. He just had no control of his mouth. "Mister A-2's not in there. He got out. I know he did!"

"D-16…" Chief D-16 said carefully. "Let's go back to the Tower, okay? We'll sort this out once the fire's out."

"No! No I need to find mister A-2! I need to help!"

He turned to run to the mechs directing the fire-suppression vehicles, to check to see if A-2 was among them, but Chief D-16 grabbed his shoulder-joints and stopped him from moving. "D-16, listen to me. A-2's not out here, kid. There's nothing you can do."

D-16 broke himself free of Chief D-16's grip and took a step back. He wanted to deny Chief D-16's words, but he couldn't. "You're right… He's not out here."

"Good, good. You agree. Now let's go to th—"

"He's trapped inside the Tunnel!"

"No! Ki—"

D-16 heard no more as he turned around and _sprinted_ for A-Tunnel, weaving in and out of the mechs running to do their part in putting out the fire. He didn't know how he'd been so blind. The reason everyone was so organized hadn't been _because_ of mister A-2, it was because mister A-2 was trapped by the fire! They had to get to him before he was too late!

But D-16 knew they wouldn't be in time. The fire was too big and hot. By the time it was out, mister A-2 would be gone. D-16 had to find a way to get to him and help him before it was too late! He was mister A-2's only chance!

The crowd around D-16 grew thinner the closer he got to the fire. But as the crowd shank, the heat from the fire increased. At first it was nearly discomfort, but quickly D-16 realized if he stayed near too long, his armor would start to melt. He had to find mister A-2. And _fast!_

Soon the only thing in his path were the line of mechs in specialized HEAT armor that were keeping people a safe distance from the blaze.

One of them, a mountainous mech with grey optics, held up a servo at his approach. "Stop! The fire's too hot for anyone not in HEAT armor!"

D-16 ignored the mech and kept racing forward.

"Turn back! You're going to burn up!"

No he wouldn't. Not before he found mister A-2.

The enormous mech took a step forward, blocking D-16's immediate path. "I said st—"

That was as far as the mech got before D-16 barreled into him at full speed, knocking them both to the floor. D-16 scrambled to his pedes as quickly as possible, mentally screaming at how he was losing time to find mister A-2. He went to run again, but fell flat as the mech in HEAT armor grabbed his pede, pulling him down.

For the first time in his life, D-16 felt rage. He screamed at the larger mech, kicking at him with his other pede before it too was secured. "I need to get to mister A-2! Let me go!"

"Not happening." The mech pulled D-16 close to him and picked him up off the floor, setting him down on his pedes.

D-16 fought in the mech's grip, but had no success in freeing himself; the mech's servos were like a vice. "You don't understand! Mister A-2 _needs me!_ "

"He doesn't need anyone anymore, kid."

"No! He needs me!"

"Enough! A-2's _dead_ , kid. And so will you if you don't get out of here." His words hit D-16 like hammer blows, their affect increased by how he didn't use the _proper_ word for offlining.

Still D-16 refused to believe it. _"NO! YOU'RE WRONG!"_

Just then a gust of air came from raging inferno that was A-Tunnel, and the mech holding D-16 snapped his helm back at the blaze. His helm snapped back again, and pulled D-16 close to him, blocking him entirely from the fire. "BRACE!"

D-16 wasn't sure what happened next. One moment they were near the fire, and the next he heard a tremendous crash, and then he and the mech were well over a hundred meters across the room, the whole line of mechs in HEAT armor nearby.

After they landed, D-16 finally broke free of the mech's grip and stood up, intent on running back to and into the fire.

But the fire had grown even hotter, its flames even more vicious. Pieces of the wall around the Tunnel were red-hot, melting into pools of liquid metal or falling off in chunks. Smoke kept pouring forth, choking the air and traveling up and up and up—up all the way to the Surface. To D-16, the fire looked like an unstoppable beast, intent on devouring all before it.

It was then, as he gazed into the monstrous firestorm, that D-16 realized A-2 was really gone.

Hot, painful tears stung his optics. He resisted at first, but he soon began weeping openly. He fell to his knee-joints and covered his faceplate with his servos, letting out loud, mournful sobs.

The fire-suppression vehicles finally did their work, drowning the blaze and leaving the entire room in an unusual silence. Few continued to move, and fewer still said anything. It was as if with the fire's death, Hub A-114 finally realized how many friends they had just lost. And no one knew what to say or do. The loudest of everyone was D-16.

D-16 felt someone kneel beside him, three others standing nearby. He ignored them and kept weeping. A-2 was gone—gone, and he never got to say goodbye. He felt so cold. So alone. So broken.

A pair of servos wrapped around him and pulled him into an embrace. "I know, kid, I know. Let it out." It was Chief D-16 holding him, the other D-16s standing around him, and the mech who'd protected him from the fire moving away with the rest of his mechs, gathering reports.

D-16's cries increased, as if he cried harder he'd get the hurt out of him. It didn't go away.

"Let it out. It's okay."

"Mister A-2's dead." The voice came from Silent D-16. D-16 recognized it from its quiet, stoic tone.

"Acer," D-16 managed to get out between sobs. "His name was Acer."

* * *

D-16 sat in front of a locker.

Shortly after the fire had been put out, rescue crews from neighboring Hubs had arrived, having set out from their own Hubs as soon as they got the distress call from Hub A-114. They were still in A-114, helping clean up and search for survivors.

D-16 knew they wouldn't find any.

He'd cried into Chief D-16's shoulder-joint for the better part of a breem, before Chief D-16 had sent him back to Shack Tower to rest up and get some energon, a rare second cube in as many cycles. He'd taken the energon, but couldn't recharge for a micro-klick.

Some time ago, a mech from Tunnel-B—B-4, D-16 knew him as—sought him out. Being a close friend of Acer, B-4 had been the one who went through Acer's room. One of the things he'd found was the key to Acer's old locker, with D-16's name etched into it. B-4 had given D-16 the key, placed a servo on his shoulder-joint, and left.

Now D-16 was sitting in front of Acer's old locker, holding its key in his servo. Whatever was inside, Acer had wanted him to have in the event of the ancient mech's offlining. And now he was.

D-16 unlocked the locker and opened the door, its ancient hinges creaking from disuse. Inside was just a single item.

A large book. Not a datapad—a _physical_ book. Made at the when the Golden Age had just Dawned. The rarest of treasures.

Carefully, as if his touch would make it crumble, D-16 reached out and picked up the book. It was as wide as his chestplates and even more length-wise, and thick enough that he couldn't get a servo around its spine. He used both servos to carry it back to the bench he'd been sitting on. It created a significant amount of noise as he set it down.

He stared down at the book for several long moments, unsure. Since when had Acer had a book? Where did he get it? Why did the ancient mech leave it for him?

D-16 at last reached out, and opened it.

Rich Cyertronic script seemed to leap out at him, every rune crisp and ordered and _beautiful_. He just wished he could read all of it; he could only read at a basic level. He flipped through pages for several klicks, recognizing few words that he was seeing. How many pages were there? There had to be thousands!

After it was clear there weren't going to be pages he fully understood, D-16 started flipping back to the beginning. He stopped when a word he hadn't caught before jumped out at him.

 _Acer_.

A name. Acer's name. In the book. Was this book where Acer got his name? Or was this book a historical account, and Acer was listed in the book?

D-16 continued flipping back to the beginning, this time keeping a sharper optic out for other names or words he understood. He reexamined the first page, and found he recognized a few more words. Or rather, he could put the letters together to form the words. Only one of the was a name.

"Me—… Mega—… Megatronix. No, Megatronus."

Megatronus. An odd name, but a strong one. A powerful one. Not like Acer's, but Acer had always wanted him to pick a name. And with him gone, D-16 needed _something_ to hold onto to keep from falling into despair like he had earlier.

D-16 needed a real name.

Megatronus would do.

* * *

 **Another chapter done. This one was exceedingly fun to write, though it carried on right up to the word count limit I've set for myself. I'll need to watch the word count more carefully for future chapters.**

 **Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading.**

 **See you soon.**


	4. Beginning

**Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.**

 **Guest - An interesting conclusion. That unfortunately requires a RAFO (Read And Find Out) answer. Thanks for the review.  
**

* * *

Femmes and mechs and sparklings were moving along the street. Most were of mid-caste. Not homeless, or in danger of being homeless, but not rich. Their armor was not rusting, and they rarely went without energon or other supplies.

Shop owners were commonplace. Everything from cheaply-made replacement parts to mid-grade energon was being sold from dozens of small stands and shops. Most shop owners had kind faceplates and talked and laughed with their customers, even the new ones. However, some were unfriendly and blunt, and only got business due to how necessary their products were to daily life.

Occasionally, a pair of Enforcers walked through the street. With clean, high-quality blue armor and the star-and-shield emblem of the Enforcers blazoned on their chestplates, they stuck out even in the mostly-respectable crowd; they carried a great presence without trying. All of them were scanning the people around them, searching for threats, potential law-breakers…

And him _._

He was watching from the roof of a building, hidden both by the darkness and the sheer distance between he and the street below. His optics saw every detail, missing nothing. He was tracking dozens of people—Enforcers and civilians alike—at once, waiting for the moment where no optics were looking at the sky.

He saw the moment arrive when the only pair of Enforcers who were watching the rooftops turned their attention to a shopkeeper who decided it was time to give the pair a sales pitch.

The mech moved as soon as they turned far enough that their peripheral vision would be useless. He ran along the rooftop, toward the next building, and jumped the gap.

He landed on the next rooftop without losing momentum and kept running. He jumped to the next building. And the next. And the next. It didn't matter if the next building was two floors taller or shorter, or several times further away than the first. Each and every time, he cleared the gap and landed on his pedes. Never rolling to lessen the impact of landing on a lower roof, and never losing his considerable momentum.

He eventually came to point where the line of skyscrapers came to an abrupt end. Below, there was a wide walkway that gave way to shorter, dirtier, and poorer buildings and streets. The gap between the rooftops he ran across and the short buildings below was greater than two hundred meters horizontally, and more than a kilometer vertically.

Due to its immense size and nature of being more than seventy-one percent metal by mass, gravity on Cybertron was extreme to any organic species—being 11.2 times stronger than the average garden world; scientists still puzzled over why Cybertron had not become a star early in its life. This tremendous gravity was so great, even Cybertronians themselves could sustain injury from a fall. The required height for such harm varied from fifty to two hundred meters, depending on a Cybertronian's build and technique when landing. Anything beyond that, and a fall almost always resulted in serious injury.

He jumped without hesitating.

Wind whipped at his enhanced audio receptors, gusting by faster and faster as he traveled both out and away from the skyscraper. The panic that most would feel falling from such a height without safety precautions did not flow through him.

The roof of the short building on the opposite side of the walkway rose up to greet the mech. He positioned himself to land on his two pedes, and braced.

The roof gave way under his weight, the ancient, stone-like material cracking and breaking apart on impact. The top floor of the building was made of the same material. The floor below it was metal, rusted and cracked, but strong enough. He landed in a crouch, knees bent. One servo braced on the floor he just landed on.

Slowly, he rose to his full height, debris from his entrance falling off his armor. The room he stood in had once been an apartment. It had fallen into disrepair long ago—its mixture of metal and exacrete construction proving to be a hazardous and unreliable method, even back when it was built in the Dawn of the Golden Age.

He caught sight of the apartment's door. He knew from its archaic design that it was not a powered sliding door like most of Cybertron used, but one that swung open and had a knob and manual locks.

He moved to the ancient door, grabbed its door knob, and pulled.

There was a crack, and the mech ended up a step backward with the door knob in his servo, and the door itself unmoved.

Typical.

Instead of trying another way of opening the door, he kicked the center of it. It broke apart on impact, his immense strength shattering it like it had been made of glass instead of metal.

The hallways outside were lined with doorways just like the apartment's. Some had doors, and some didn't. Most doors that _were_ there had been so damaged by time that he could still see into the barren rooms beyond. Besides the occasional beam of faint light that came from holes in the roof, the hallways were all dark and motionless. Silent.

If he could feel fear, he would have found the entire building to be unnerving.

He came to a stairwell. It was open and led straight to the ground floor with sets of stairs that went around and around each floor in a circular pattern. More apartment doors were on each level. He saw immediately that the stairs were out in multiple levels, and chose to go the direct route.

The mech landed in a smaller crouch than before, impact breaking the old and brittle flooring of the ground level. The booming sound of his landing echoed in the large empty room—what had once been a common room, he realized.

He moved out of the common room and through another series of hallways. He passed vagrant Cybertronians almost at every turn, all of them looking at him in shock or suspicion. All of them were in some state of disrepair. Some had chipped paint or excessive grime build-up. Others had scars from injuries sustained from living on the screets. A few were even missing entire limbs or optics. Unlike the mid-caste he'd seen before, very few of these Cybertronians had money or energon to spare; and those that did horded it there was nothing else like it on Cybertron. If given the opportunity, they would take from others, if only to survive the cycle.

Given his location in Kaon, the mech expected about half of those he saw were criminals at one point or another. None thought it a good idea to see if he—with his towering height, thick armor and solid build—had money for them to take.

He continued making his way through the building, passing numerous other Cybertronians squatting in the ancient structure. Like the others, not one tried to rob him. At last he found his way out of the old apartment building and into the street.

The difference between the street in front of him and the street he'd seen earlier was as great as night and day. Instead of a well-maintained walkway filled with shops and energon stands, the street was virtually empty and silent. Few walked along its broken, rusting sidewalks or drove through its rough and junk-riddled road.

And to think that just behind him, on the opposite side of the ancient apartments, there was a clean street with people laughing and enjoying life.

Cybertron was unlike any other place he'd been before. And not in a good way.

He moved along the street, heading away from the mid-caste zone and ignoring the odd looks he got from the few others who were on the street with him. Unlike the Cybertronians inside the old apartment building, these people probably had homes to go to. Or what they could get to pass off as homes. Either way, they were just a step above the homeless, and would be hard-pressed just to keep off the streets. Anyone they hadn't seen before would be an unusual sight, but they wouldn't be outwardly suspicious of him.

He had not been walking long before his enhanced optics caught sight of an immense column of red smoke in the distance. He knew—both from news reports and from snippets of conversation he's overheard as he fled from one place to the next—that the smoke was coming from a shaft leading down to the Mines of Kaon.

There had been some sort of accident two mega-cycles ago, an explosion large enough to register as a planetquake. The smoke still poured forth from the depths. People had been living in the smoke's shadow in fear—some fearing for any Miners caught in the accident, others fearing it could lead to massive cave-ins. The Rulers had made live addresses through the Datanet to assure the public the fire had been out since the cycle it started, and that the smoke would dissipate eventually.

No statement regarding the Miners was made.

He expected nothing less from Rulers.

There was an old transportation terminal ahead, long out of use save for the long sets of stairs next to it. He exited the main road and started descending the first set of stairs, the first of two sets that would go to the level below. He'd researched Kaon, and knew that anyone who truly mattered in the city were on the lower levels—Level 7, to be exact. It was the richest and the poorest section of the entire city, and was packed densely with people who didn't ask or answer the wrong questions.

Exactly what he needed.

"You hear about Honix?"

The mech became one with the shadows before the voice finished its question. From its depth and pitch, the voice belonged to a mech. One who had the ability to take better care of himself than most in the area. It came from below, down two of the long sets of the stairs in the staircase. Level 2, another slum like Level 1.

"You mean the riots?" Another voice, again a mech's, asked in turn. "Yeah I heard. Over ten thousand offline already, another million forced out at gunpoint."

"I didn't hear it was _that_ many."

"Sol Industries recently sent in their drones to another pocket of people resisting their takeover of the city."

"Any survivors?"

"Just the drones."

He heard the first mech growl. The mech carried anger through the sound. "Damn Swindle and his company. That bastard thinks it's his _right_ to play with the lives of others. Honix is the third minor city his company's taken over to _improve_. What I wouldn't give for a good rifle and a clear shot…"

By now he could see the two mechs on the landing just one set of stairs down. The first mech was blue and black, and—from the presence of door-wings—a Praxian. The other mech was black and white, and notably taller than the short Praxian. Both had the Enforcer emblem on their chestplates.

The black and white mech grabbed the shoulder-joint of the Praxian. "Keep your voice down! You're talking about a Noble from House Commerce—a Noble who has the audio receptors of the Council _and_ the Rulers!"

"That's just my point!" The Praxian growled, quieter than before. "They have so much power, wealth and influence, and they're all corrupt. Everyone knows it!"

"Precisely why you shouldn't start _shouting_ things like that! Think of who could be hearing you right now. Who might _pass_ that opinion along to _certain people_."

The Praxian seemed confused.

"Look, _certain people_ collect information. Whether it's a casual conversation between friends or sensitive talks between the Council and the leaders of one of the Moons, they will find out what was said in that time. It's what they do. The reason they do it is because _everything_ is valuable to _someone_. What do you think the Council and the Rulers value more than anything else?"

The Praxian was silent for a long time. Then at last, he said, "Keeping their lives in order."

The other Enforcer nodded. "Right. How would they like it if they found out an Enforcer had bad things to say about them? An Enforcer _stationed_ in one of the morst crime-ridden areas on all of Cybertron?"

"They wouldn't."

"Right again. And how far do you think they would go to keep that Enforcer from saying similar things in high-caste zones?"

This time, the Praxian said nothing. His optics said he knew.

The other Enforcer let the Praxian go. "That was the wisest thing you've done all night, Rookie. Never forget where you are, and who might be _listening_. It helps to keep you alive."

The Enforcers continued up the stairs and stepped onto the set where the mech was hiding in the shadows. The black and white Enforcer walked right by the mech's hiding spot, but the Praxian lingered. He was looking right at the mech, but he was squinting at him. Like he was trying to see something else besides the mech.

The mech didn't move a millimeter. Not even his optics shifted. He was now the exact same shade of darkness as the shadows, his armor using the light and objects behind him to produce the same look. It was a _gift_ , and it made him invisible when he desired. So long as he didn't move.

"That's weird…" The Praxian reached out and touched the wall next to the mech's side, brushing some rust with a digit.

The mech knew the Praxian was inches away from his side, but he could do nothing about it. If he moved, the Enforcer would attack. Either with the stunner or the pistol at his sides.

The Praxian would be okay if the stunner came out.

As for the pistol…

"You coming, Rookie?" The black and white Enforcer appeared at the top of the stairs, looking down at the Praxian.

The Praxian hadn't heard the other mech coming, and jumped in surprised. As he did, his servo banged against the mech's side. The sound echoed loudly around the stairwell.

Now _both_ Enforcers were looking his way. One of them with suspicion instead of confusion. The one at the top of the stairs placed a servo on his pistol, but kept it holstered. "Rookie..."

The Praxian was flabbergasted, and didn't seem to hear his partner. "The Pit?" He narrowed his optics at the mech's camouflaged side. Then his optics went wide, and he went for the stunner at his hip.

The mech's servos moved faster than the average Cybertronian could see. Before his active camo had time to fade, he had slammed a fist into the side of the Praxian's helm, taken his pistol and stunner, and tossed the smaller mech _up_ the stairs and into the black and white Enforcer before he could pull out his pistol.

The mech vaulted over the railing as the black and white Enforcer started pushing the unconscious Praxian off him. He fell all the way down to Level 7 far, far below and landed on his pedes, impact creating a loud clang as he landed on the metal ground. Then he moved away from the stairs at a casual pace, knowing it would take the Enforcer's a significant amount of time to travel down to Level 7 from the surface. He placed the pistol and stunner at both his sides and scanned his new surroundings.

The buildings at Level 7 were shorter than the surface, but of far better build and quality. He recognized the style as belonging to Center, the largest section of Level 7 and its only true city. The ceiling was far above his helm, more than high enough to fit a thirty-story building without scraping the top. The foundations of towers and other large buildings from the surface or Levels above 7 occasionally pierced through both the ground above and below, giving them the appearance of massive pillars that kept Level 7 from being crushed. The entire Level was lit with dull orange and red lighting from massive lamps hanging from the ground above, giving it the look of a place in a constant dusk or twilight.

Crowds even larger than the ones the mech had seen at the mid-caste zones filled Level 7's spacious, well-kept streets. No one in the crowd was unarmed or without guards who were armed. The mech suspected everyone he saw were mercenaries, thugs, smugglers, mob enforcers, or owners of unsavory businesses. Most were going to or from the many establishments scattered across Center—ranging from racing tracks, bars, and nightclubs, to illegal weapons shops, slave auction houses, and gladiatorial arenas, where most who were bought from the auction houses ended up.

It made him sick.

He made his way through the crowds, ignoring the suspicious or curious looks he received. He could have avoided the crowds, but that would be a bad idea. Very few people from Onyx visited Cybertron, and anyone who noted his height, build, and nature as a Triple-Changer would know immediately he was Onyxian. That alone drew attention to him. Being an Onyxian _and_ trying to avoid a crowd would draw far more attention.

Possibly enough for even people of Level 7 to talk to an Enforcer.

The crowds eventually thinned, most people sticking near the center of town—where all the wealth, illegal goods, and security provided by the local kingpins was centered. The Onyxian, however, was just looking for a good corner to hide in. Once he had more space to move freely, he transformed into one of his alternate forms—a high-tech, streamlined, heavy combat vehicle with eight wheels—and drove away from Center.

Just outside Center was Forgotten. It was a part of Level 7 where most of its buildings were damaged, and many of its streets were filled craters. Results of a long-forgotten war between criminal organizations. The only people who frequented the street as he passed through were stim addicts who twitched constantly or ranted at walls, stim dealers who narrowed their optics at him, and vagrants who had nowhere else to go. Despite appearing to be destroyed, the Onyxian had read that Forgotten was just as densely populated as Center, and was home to just as many criminal organizations and mercenaries. Just ones that weren't as successful.

The Onyxian drove through it.

The next area he came to was what the locals called Empty: the section of town that had been forgotten entirely. Here, it was a ghost town where few bothered to tread. Empty, like almost all of Cybertron, had buildings everywhere, but not a single one of them was occupied. The Empty had once been what Center was now: where everything happened on Level 7 and beyond.

But that was a long time ago, before Center had been built. Before even the Golden Age. Now, Empty was just a name on old, useless maps, with its only occupants the cyberhounds who scavenged for food around an old ore pipeline above Empty that hadn't seen use since the ore transportation system was modernized at the Dawn of the Golden Age. Its ancient buildings were all vacant, and most had been salvaged to build Center. Little of worth remained.

The Onyxian drove through the streets slowly, carefully analyzing each building he passed. He was looking for flaws.

Too tall. Too degraded. Too many windows. Too small. Most had more that he could fix. The few that had more benefits than flaws were in strategically poor locations, or would need cables from Center to create power. The search was near hopeless.

He continued evaluating buildings for half a breem until he finally found a building that fit his needs and standards.

It was the ore pipeline management station. Six full stories tall and longer and wider than most warehouses, the management station was a very large and heavily built structure. Even countless centi-vorns since it had last been in use, its walls still showed no signs of rust or deconstruction; they likely were too thick and heavy to be salvaged.

The pipeline the station once managed ran through the facility on both sides, starting and ending at locations forgotten ages ago. A now-drained energon lake surrounded the management station on all sides, creating a deep chasm that could only be conquered from the air. The remains of a security checkpoint were at the edge of the drained lake, where a bridge had once stood. What was left of that bridge rested in the chasm, far below the Onyxian's pedes.

He had found it.

It needed a new bridge, security systems—that meant he needed to build a power station—but it was the best place he could think of for a hideout. This is where he had been running for so long.

He would start over here. Start over free of Onyx. Free of the Knights and their expectations. Free of training. Free of augments. Free of… _Him_.

This was where he gave his life a second beginning.

* * *

 **This originally was meant to be a short story written for a contest on DeviantArt. I didn't make the deadline for the contest, and instead reworked a lot of it into this chapter. I also cheated a little bit on this one, as technically what inspired me were the words "new life." As it turns out, writing something from those words is difficult when I can't reuse a character until I've introduced everyone.**

 **Let me know what you thought of this one. Thanks for reading.  
**

 **See you soon.**


	5. Politics

**Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.**

 **Seeker3 - Maybe. Or maybe not. It's a RAFO.**

 **And I would be shocked if the number for my own OCs wasn't as high as 50. Product of having a 600k story, I expect. Thanks for reviewing.**

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"The accident in the Mines of Kaon is still sending shockwaves through the world markets; the Exchanges in Kalis, Tarn, and Vos have fallen two percent this cycle, and are down twenty-six percent since the accident. Our own Exchange here in Iacon is down nineteen percent over the same amount of time. House Commerce have sent us a proposal for a stimulus package to prevent defaults in publically-traded companies. The proposal already has the Rulers' seal of approval on it, and they request your own."

"Polyhex encroached on the borders of the Shining Cliffs last night. Casualties are still unknown, but our people estimate at least fifteen thousand are dead, with another sixty-one thousand wounded. A moderately-scaled conflict between Polyhex and the Shining Cliffs is expected to come about from the incident. The House of War wishes to meet with you about who we should side with and whether we should intervene."

"Councillor Cellia's empty Elder Council seat was not filled during the meetings earlier this morning. As such, the Elder Council has reached out to us for a tie-breaking vote. You are expected to send them an answer within the next two solar-cycles."

"A mech from House Justice is here to talk to you about the situation in Honix. I believe he wants to know how and why Sol Industries was allowed to occupy the city, and under whose authority Noble Swindle's drone forces have been quelling the local population through lethal force. Should he be sent away?"

She watched as old Sentinel Prime took in all the reports from his aides with a look that said not one thing he heard was something new. And, she supposed, nothing probably was to the ancient Prime.

Sentinel had been Prime far longer than the average Cybertronian lived before they fell into Endless Rest—the end of a Cybertronian's life where they fall into recharge and never awaken, choosing to leave this World and return Home. This vorn was his sixty thousandth as Prime, marking him by far the longest-serving Prime since the Dawn of the Golden Age.

His great age showed in how his armor—once vibrant red and rich gold—now had faded into a dull grey from his armor no longer accepting paint. His optics—once said to be royal and full of life and intensity—now were nearly as grey as his armor, and looked _tired_. Tired of the politics he dealt with every single cycle. His once-broad shoulder-joints were also sagged, and his spine was terribly bent. Like the weight of all those who wished to take a piece of the Ministers of Prime physically weighed him down.

She felt pity for him.

"Tell House Commerce that I wish to know the details of their stimulus package before I place the Prime's seal on it; I will not let this office be used as leverage in the larger game." Sentinel's voice was the one part of him that was not weak. His voice was brassy, authoritative, stern and powerful. Few had the ability to project themselves like Sentinel Prime could, and none had the same presence. "As for the imminent conflict between Polyhex and the Shining Cliffs, tell House War we can meet within the breem if they so wish—let them set the exact time. Regarding the Council seat, I will need to consult with an old friend before any decision is made; clear a few breems out of my schedule so I can get to that. And no, don't send the House Justice mech away. I will meet with him once we're done here. It will be good to discuss what legal steps we can take to bring a stop to Noble Swindle."

"Sir, are you sure that is wise?" Asked Phonic, the mech who brought forward the matter of House Justice. He was a tall, slightly-built green and yellow mech. Almost the color of sickness. She didn't like him very much, even though he was her immediate superior. "Noble Swindle is protected by the Authority of Three. He has the Rulers and the Elder Council on his side. Technically, we're supposed to be on his side, too; we were the ones who pushed for the Authority of Three to become law. Any stance we take that isn't neutral will be taken badly."

The Authority of Three. How she hated that document.

Meant to provide stability to a fracturing Empire long ago, the Authority of Three was an idea that gave near-total power to three different aspects of government: The Elder Council, a political body that analyzed any and all issues that affected Cybertron and created or modified legislation to improve living and economic conditions for all; the Rulers, the leaders of each Cybertronian city-nation, given freedom to rule their respective zones so long as they adhered to the majority of the Elder Council's legislation; and the Ministers of Prime, the smallest body of the Three, whose job it was to provide wisdom and advice to the Rulers and the Elder Council.

Only that's how it worked in theory.

In reality, a caste system had been in place since the Authority of Three was implemented across the planet. There were many, many castes, and the majority lived good lives, made good livings, and with great amounts of personal freedom that rarely if ever saw danger. But there were a few on either end of the spectrum that were exceptions.

On the high side of the spectrum were the Nobles. They arose from the Houses, ancient entities that once ruled Cybertron and the Moons. Before the Authority of Three came into being, the Houses gave up their rule in favor of creating democracies across their civilization. They still made up a significant majority of politicians and leaders within Cybertronian society, but they did not hold absolute authority.

Under the guidance of the Rulers, the Nobles were reorganized into what amounted to corporations who carried out the instructions of the Rulers, in turn relayed to them by the Council. Rich and storied Houses such as Solus and Quintus died away, and in their place were Commerce and Science. And the unity Cybertron had enjoyed until then faded away. Now, the Rulers saw each other as rivals and enemies, and few were decent mechs and femmes. Wars, or threats of war, were commonplace.

There were still good Houses, of course. Those that remembered what their ancestors stood for, and were just as willing to stand for it in the present. They were just… Rare, now.

On the low side of the spectrum were the Laborers. Miners. Maintenance. Cleaners. They did all the dangerous, hard work on the planet, and they got almost nothing for it. Sometimes they _did_ get nothing. They had no right to complain, and no right to explore other opportunities within their caste, like all other castes had.

It was slavery, plain and simple. And the Authority of Three did nothing about it. The Nobles' abuse of the lowest caste was beginning to spread to other castes, as well. Not in extreme ways, but just enough that their power was unchallenged.

She saw the way Sentinel's optics hardened at the mention of the Authority of Three. She knew he hated it, too. But he never said it. Not in public, and not among others. He was too careful for that. "Phonic—let me remind you that it was my predecessor, Rodimus, that pushed for the Authority of Three. It was he who signed it into law, and he who let the Three run out of control. _I_ am not Rodimus. As such, I am free to think whatever I like about laws made by leaders of the past."

"Of course, but where our support lands is a more complicated matter," said Phonic, unmoved. He was Sentinel's chief adviser, and it was his job to challenge Sentinel on his decisions. "If we move to take action against Noble Swindle, we are undermining the authority of two of the other Three. The protocols of the Authority dictate they ta—"

"Take action against us, I know," Sentinel interrupted. "But I have already declared myself neutral on the topic. If I am seen ignoring the requests of House Justice because the Council and Rulers are, then I am no longer neutral, am I?"

"House Justice has no power without the Authority."

"No, but let the Council and Rulers see that I am not their pawn. I will be meeting with the representative. This conversation is over."

Phonic quieted himself.

"Is there anything else before this briefing is concluded?" Sentinel asked, looking around the room.

The other advisers shook their helms.

Her communication with her friend in the Archives came back to her CPU. She held her tongue, knowing that it was still new and shouldn't bring forward unconfirmed information to _the_ Prime, especially when it came from a personal contact. Every instinct in her frame told her to just keep quiet.

She was unable to keep from flinching when Sentinel's old optics passed over her. He saw it, and immediately his attention was on her. "Ariel. Is there something you wish to add?"

Ariel felt the optics of the others fall on her when the Prime asked that. She flinched again, gripped the data pad she held close to her chestplates, and carefully cleared her throat. "Well, yes and no. I mean, I have something, but it's not _something_."

"How does it exist, I wonder," Phonic deadpanned.

"Yes?" Sentinel was still focused on her, and seemed to have not heard Phonic.

She was encouraged by that, and proceeded with a little more confidence. "Sir, you are aware that the Onyxian Collective informed us an unidentified criminal was able to slip through their defenses and flee to Cybertron roughly a mega-cycle ago."

"Of course; I was the one who notified the Enforcers to be on the lookout for any Onyxian acting suspiciously."

"As if there are a lot of Onyxians down here in the first place," Ariel heard one of the other advisers mutter.

"Sir, I believe they weren't truthful with us," Ariel said, ignoring the adviser's statement, and a similar one related to what she just said. She moved forward and handed her data pad to the Prime. "This is a data log given to me by one of my contacts at the Hall of Records. It's part of a conversation exchanged between Ambassador Scarn here in Iacon, and another mech my contact could not identify."

Sentinel immediately copied the data pad's contents, and sent it to the other advisers in the room. He wanted _everyone_ to read it?

"' _And how was the individual able to get through our defenses?'_ " Phonic said, quoting the first line in the partial conversation. "Is Scarn referring to their fugitive?"

"' _I don't know; the Knights aren't being very open on the topic.'_ " Trackracer, a short mech of average build and deep blue color, was the one who quoted the next line. "Who are these Knights? I know of no group on Onyx with knight in their name."

"' _What about official BOA channels? Did you get anything from them?'_ " Sentinel quoted. "Scarn is talking about the Bureau of Onyxian Affairs. Why would an intelligence agency have knowledge of a common criminal?"

"' _Their only response was to say I didn't need to know. They won't even give me the Threat Level that Collective Security placed on the individual. It's like they won't even acknowledge the individual's existence.'"_ Phonic frowned as he read the last line. "This is sounding more and more like lines from a bad vid. How trustworthy is your source, Ariel?"

Very, considering how long he had been at the Archives. "Extremely."

"And did they have anything to say about these Knights? How and why the BOA knows who's hiding on Cybertron right now?" Sentinel asked.

Ariel shook her helm. "No. The Hall of Records keep data of everything on Cybertron, not the Moons. They didn't have anything we can't find out with a quick Datanet search. What little Onyx allows to get through their security, anyway."

The Prime frowned. "This is troubling. Troubling, and confusing. Onyx has never kept secrets from us when it involves criminal activity, yet they do so now? We will need to find a way to obtain more information about this fugitive."

"The Onyxian Collective is never going to give us anything," said Trackracer. "They aren't even giving anything to their own people. How will we succeed where Ambassador Scarn is failing?"

"I never said we had to _talk_ to the Collective," Sentinel said. "We will search for answers on our own. But quietly, and carefully. I trust everyone understands this conversation does not leave the room?"

Everyone, including Ariel, nodded.

"Good. Then I call this briefing complete. Leave me be; I will be meeting with the House Justice representative soon."

Ariel stood along with the others, but was stilled when Sentinel said, "Not you, Ariel."

She looked at Phonic for answers, but all he gave her was a look. He continued on and walked out the door with the others. The door closed behind him.

Now she was alone.

With _the Prime_.

Not nerve-wracking at all.

She turned to Sentinel and stood as straight as she could, hiding her fidgeting digits behind her backplates. "Yes, sir?"

Sentinel gestured to a chair. "Sit."

Wordlessly, she did. She had to place her servos on top of her pedes to do so, which, she thought, was probably why Sentinel asked her to sit in the first place; he wanted to know what she was feeling. She had to fight against the impulse to continue fidgeting her servos.

"You source at the Hall of Records," the Prime went on. "Who is it?"

She stiffened for a moment, then forced herself to relax. He didn't know. He couldn't. "Why do you wish to know, sir?"

"I like to know who I'm dragging into things; helps the soul when bad mechs and femmes decide the best way to hurt me is by going after contacts I've made. Does your contact have a name?"

"I think it best if you don't know it, sir."

He gave her a long stare for that, and she fidgeted under his authoritative gaze. Then, to her complete confusion, he smiled. The expression seemed to be one he had little cause to give often. "Grand Archivist Alpha Trion."

Ariel recoiled as if Sentinel had struck her, optics wide in shock. She felt her mouth slightly agape, but she paid no attention to it. How had Sentinel known?

Sentinel gave a quiet laugh. "I suspected I would be right about that."

"How?" She finally managed to ask.

Now the Prime sniffed, the sound almost coming out as a scoff. "You are less than a vorn removed from the Academy, and still are learning how to do your job here. When you leave at the end of the cycle, you head straight for your home; and when you accompany the others on one of their rare social gatherings at Old Maccadam's, you do not stray from the group or display an interest in anything besides learning more about your job. All of that tells me you knew your contact at the Hall of Archives before you came here. And since the Grand Archivist _is_ your adopted sire…"

He was right on all counts. So right it was scary. He even knew Alpha had taken she and her sisters in. "Please… Please don't tell the others." She was aware how pleading she sounded, and how young she was acting, but she couldn't help it. It wasn't common knowledge that the only living mech to have seen the Dawn of the Golden age had adopted daughters. If it was, she wouldn't have been able to walk the streets without being recognized.

Especially if it was widely known what Chromia was up to these cycles.

The Prime laughed again. "Don't worry; your secret is safe with me. I have known the Grand Archivist too long to betray his trust."

"Wait, you know him?"

"How do you think you had an interview for this position waiting for you when you graduated from the Academy?"

Ariel felt as if someone had slapped her. So she hadn't gotten this job because of her qualifications, after all. Alpha had essentially given it to her. He had given it to her because he knew she wasn't cut out for it otherwise.

All her hard work at the Academy was meaningless.

Sentinel huffed, as if offended. "Do you really think I am one to give people positions because they are related to old friends? I'm offended; only the Rulers and the Elder Council do that sort of slag."

The unexpected curse startled Ariel, but she did her best to remain unsurprised. "Then why did you hire me?"

"Because you nailed the interview. That, and Grand Archivist Alpha Trion's near-constant _gushing_ of you made me want to know what was so special about you. Top one percent at the Academy of Zeta is very impressive, no matter where you come from. You should be proud."

She felt uncomfortable at the praise, but forced herself to nod. "Thank you, sir."

The Prime smiled again. Then he stood up, and so did she. He grabbed his cane so he could stand a little straighter. Even hunched, the top of her helm only reached his chin. Chromia would not have even met his waist. "Return to your work, Ariel. Have Commander Magnus send in the mech from House Justice, if you happen to see him."

"Yes, sir." She turned walked out the door as the old Prime turned to face his office window, displaying a view of downtown Iacon. Even at night, the skyline was a mesmerizing sight—one she knew Sentinel enjoyed greatly, even if he never said it.

Ariel always had a talent for reading people's emotions. Yet somehow, she had missed all the signs her adopted sire played a role in her gaining this position. She needed to work on her observation skills when emotion didn't have a part in someone else's reactions.

She made her way past the two Elite Guard on the other side of the door and moved into the hallway. The Elite Guard was a highly-trained, honored, and dedicated military unit in charge of protecting all three parts of the Authority. The Elite Guard had twelve soldiers within a hundred meters of Sentinel Prime every breem of every solar-cycle. Thrice that, if there was a threat placed on the Prime's life.

At the other end of the hall, there was another door and two more Elite Guard. This door was locked, and required the two Elite Guard to open it. They did just that for Ariel.

The room beyond was circular and had a tall ceiling high enough for nine stories, yet only had three, spaced out three times more than normal. She was on the third floor—the floor reserved for the Prime and their direct advisers. The second floor was for the other staff , while the first floor was for the Elite Guard and any people who came to meet with the Prime or someone within their staff. The decorations and furnishings on each floor were incredibly valuable, and historical items were present on every wall.

Ariel leaned over the railing to see if Guard Commander Ultra Magnus, the head of Sentinel Prime's Elite Guard, was in sight. She saw many mechs and femmes moving about on the floor below, but she did not see the Guard Commander among them. Sentinel Prime would have to send word down to the Guard Commander himself.

She walked along the wall until she reached the fifth door to the left of Prime's office—the office of the lowest of the Prime's advisers. She took out her keychip and inserted it into the lock. Once the door unlocked for her and opened to the side, she entered her office.

Her office was the smallest of all the adviser's offices, and less than a fifth the size of Prime's office, but still larger than the small apartment she was renting in Tagian, near the Iacon Museum of Cybertronian history. The office had a large desk, a pair of luxurious couches off to the side for her to hold meetings if need be, and—like all the offices—had a long window that gave a one hundred and twenty degree view of the city outside.

Ariel made her way to the desk and sat down. Data pads were stacked up on the desk, filled with files and reports and other paperwork she hadn't had time to get to yet. She'd been only been at this job for three jours, and already she'd filed more paperwork than she did in six orbital-cycles of education at the Academy of Zeta.

She reached for the first data pad on her desk, then stopped. The urge to look out the window came over her. She knew why, and resisted. But eventually, she could not ignore the urge, and stood up and walked to the window.

Her window gave her an almost complete view of Iacon's Eastern Quadrant. A place of countless gardens, parks, and the massive, incredible structure home to the Elder Council.

But more importantly, it was also home to Maccadam's Old Oil House.

Ariel gazed out where she could see the large building, its sides crafted like works of art, its flashing lights coloring the sky purple, blue, yellow, and red. It was the oldest, most famous, most well-known, and most respected hub of entertainment on Cybertron or the Moons. What made it famous was not just the quality of its entertainment and drinks, but the entire atmosphere it breathed inside and out. It was one of the only places on Cybertron where an Elder Council member could drink with a beggar off the street. Where all types of Nobles would engage the lowest castes as equals. Where all staff treated everyone the same, no matter how much Shanix was tossed their way. Ariel was not one who cared for entertainment hubs, but she _loved_ Maccadam's. Everyone did.

But recently, she had mixed feelings for it. Not because of an event there, but the knowledge _of_ an event.

Alpha had told her he had a few reliable sources place Chromia at Old Maccadam's three mega-cycles ago. She apparently had been drinking with a group of soldiers of House War to earn Shanix chits. The sources placed this event down at the sixth level.

Ariel had been at level five that same night. Just thinking they had been so close to each other—that she was just had one floor separating them…

But she also knew there was a lot more than just a floor keeping them apart.

Ariel wasn't sure when it happened, but Chromia grew apart from them. Far apart. So far that she blocked their bonds with her one night, and left to strike it out on her own. Ariel and Arcee had been inconsolable that night, and Alpha Trion had been almost as bad. That was the last time Ariel had seen Chromia.

Chromia's act set a series of events in motion that led to Arcee and Ariel butting helms over anything and everything. They fought, sometimes verbally, sometimes physically. It wasn't until Ariel left for the Academy that things started to get better between them. They were still far from close, but they were civil. Almost.

Why did Chromia leave? What caused her to hate them? Where was she now?

That little voice in her helm spoke again, and she looked at the comm on her desk. There was a number she could dial to find that out. She knew it by spark. Everyone with basic knowledge of the Underworld did.

Seven numbers when combined added up to thirteen. Too short for a number to any comm, bank account, Datanet address, or street number. But it was _the_ number. The number that would connect someone to an agent for the most feared figure in the Cybertronian Underworld.

Information.

They had no other name; no other alias. They had optics and audio receptors everywhere. Knew things no one else was supposed to—things that could age a bot a hundred vorns in a single micro-klick. Things that dated from before the Hall of Records.

When Information needed something, they got it. Whether it be from the Authority of Three or the most notorious gang in Kaon didn't matter. They got what they needed. Every. Single. Time.

Ariel sometimes read of shipments of military-grade hardware going missing, with the Enforcers having no leads as to who took it or how. Of a gang who had been known to horde energon being found massacred in their own hideout, their stores emptied. A rich mech or femme from a high-caste suddenly finding their bank accounts missing a very precise amount of Shanix, and the bank's records indicating the victim was the one who ordered a transfer to an untraceable account.

All Information's work.

No one knew the identity of Information, or where they were hiding. Those that made attempts to find them out of curiosity ended up with their darkest secrets posted on the Datanet. Those that tried to find Information to make a name for themselves were never seen or heard from again. As for those that deliberately crossed Information… They were usually found in pieces scattered across the planet, near places they were associated. No one was spared that fate.

Not even the Nobles and the Authority.

If Ariel was willing to make a deal, finding Chromia would be a simple task for Information.

But no. No, Ariel couldn't go to Information. On the night Chromia left, Alpha had made Ariel a promise—a promise that he would find Chromia and bring her home, whether she wanted to be home or not. She trusted Alpha to keep that promise. And it would messy for her, literally and figuratively, to pay Information's price.

She just hoped she would remain unwilling to make that sacrifice.

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 **The word "Politics" was what inspired this one. I didn't have time to proofread it tonight, as it is 3:00 am at the moment, so if you see mistakes or words that should be capitalized, assume they will be fixed tomorrow.**

 **Please, leave let me know what you thought of this chapter, and of the little sneak peak behind the scenes of a High-Caste. Thank you for reading.**

 **See you soon.**


	6. Student

**Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.**

 **Guest - Good. Ariel was a pretty obvious one, though fun to write. I look forward to her future chapters. Thanks for reviewing.**

 **partytildawn (chapter 2) - Perhaps. And perhaps not. Interesting guess, though. Thanks for reviewing.**

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He walked across the floor softly, making as little noise as possible as he pushed his gravity cart loaded with data chips.

He was moving through the 777th Floor of the Hall of Records—a floor of Datanet Catalogers. Each Cataloger was seated at a desk that surrounded them two hundred and seventy degrees. On the desks was a series of equipment used to record, catalog, and track the exabytes of data the individual Cataloger was assigned to comb through for the cycle. The floor itself housed more than a thousand such desks and Catalogers, each focused entirely on their job, and only their job. Not the incredible view of downtown Iacon just outside of the hundred foot, circular window that wrapped around the floor. Not on each other. Not on the works of art—created by the most famous artists in history—hung up on the walls. Just their job.

It had something to do with the endless amounts of data they needed to view each and every cycle. Millions and millions of lines of text per breem. More, if there was a major event happening across Cybertron. But there was only a set amount of data each Cataloger had to go through before they had to leave; and so long as they went through it, it did not matter when they left for home.

As a result, Catalogers focused on getting their work done so they could then enjoy the benefits of their position in the Hall of Archives. Cataloger had their own routine to maximize efficiency. A system of sorts that put them in the _zone_ , so to speak. No one routine was the same: some liked to draw; some liked to drink mid-grade; some liked music; some a combination. But all had one thing in common.

They didn't like _noise_.

Not the noise made by other Catalogers; they were fine with that. What they didn't like was noise made by someone who didn't share their profession. A sound out of the norm for the floor. One dropped data chip, and he'd have a hundred annoyed Catalogers glaring at him. He knew; he'd done it before. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat.

He made his way through the floor as quietly as possible, stopping at various desks to _carefully_ set down a data chip he needed to deliver to a particular Cataloger. He was pressed for time, but he did not rush himself; rushing would break the Catalogers out of their routine.

Eventually his cart was empty, and he made his way to one of the elevators. Once inside, he pressed the holo button for the 555th Floor, where Pages such as him were to go for assignments.

The elevator descended quietly and silently, two dampening fields above and below it reducing noise by eighty percent compared to typical elevators. It still took several klicks to arrive at the 555th Floor.

Unlike the 777th Floor, the 555th Floor was loud and had many people moving here and there. Everyone looked like they were in a rush, and in truth they all were. The 111th Floor was one of the only six floors dedicated to transporting data chips, files, and reports to other floors. And so, everyone on the floor was busy and overworked.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

He made his way through the floor quickly, expertly maneuvering his cart through the mass of people who were too busy to pay full attention to where they were going. He stopped about thirty meters away from a tall, slightly-built red femme shouting orders to a small group of Pages gathered around her, made up of three mechs and one femme.

"Orderhelm—you've got Floors 515 through 525!" She shouted at the first mech, colored grey and blue. He immediately went off to the elevator that would get him to those floors the fastest.

"Silvershock—Floors 422 to 427!"

The second of the mechs—average in height, build, and looks—dashed away, his orange armor lost in the crowd.

"Boltshot—600 up to 605; don't annoy the Floor Master this time!"

The smiling white and green femme laughed. "No promises!" Then she was gone.

"And Tracks—you're needed at Floors 707 through 712!"

The lumbering hulk of a mech, half again the height of even the femme issuing orders, grumbled and moved away, crowd parting for his titanic form.

When the other Pages were gone, the femme turned, and saw him standing there with an empty cart. She narrowed her optics—an exceptionally rare color of bright silver—and gestured for him to come closer.

He approached in an ordered manner, hiding his shame behind a mask of calm.

"You're late," she said with crossed servos, her high voice stern but not scornful. "I had to give Orderhelm your assignment. Again. That makes the third time this mega-cycle."

He winced at that. Orderhelm was a Senior Page—a Page who'd been chosen for additional training to eventually become a Manager. Orderhelm was also definitely one of the fastest workers in the entire Hall of Records. He had no doubt Orderhelm would finish both sets of floors with time to spare, but that wasn't the point.

The point was he wasn't doing his job.

"I have no excuse, Floor Master Ret," he said, his own voice small and—to his own audio receptors—pathetic. He seemed to always sound subdued and quiet compared to everyone else working at Floor 555. He blamed it on being twelve vorns old.

"Was it Floor 777 again?" Ret asked

He nodded.

Ret sighed, shaking her helm. "I've told you before that you need to worry about doing _your_ job, not them doing theirs. It doesn't matter if you bother a Cataloger every now and then; it's part of the job."

"But it matters to them," he said. "I don't want to bother the people up there when I know I can avoid it."

"You bother people here when you take too long and drop your work on someone else."

Those words hurt like she'd struck him, but it wasn't anything he hadn't thought himself. He lowered his helm, staring down at his empty cart. "I know…" It seemed like no matter what he did, he caused someone, somewhere, a problem. And recently, it had been happening more and more frequently.

He couldn't do _anything_ right.

He heard Ret sigh again, then he looked up when she laid a servo on his shoulder-joint. She had a different look on her faceplate, now. A smart, kind, and sensitive one. Much like Ret was when she wasn't working. "Look… You know I don't mean to be harsh, Pads." That was his name on Floor 555. He got it because whenever he was off work, he was reading. Fiction, history, science papers. It didn't matter. His optics would go straight to a data pad as soon as his shift ended. "But you _need_ to work faster. No matter how much we cover for you, you know I can't have a Page who doesn't keep up with everyone else. Eventually, there will come a time where we get get backed up. Then the entire Hall suffers."

"I know."

"Then you know what I need to do."

"Reassign me to a different position. More likely fire me."

Ret nodded. "Normally, that would be the case. But not this time."

Pads blinked. Why was he not being reassigned?

Ret opened one of her sub-space pockets and held out a data pad. "This came for you not long after you left on your last trip."

Pads took the pad and read the main part quickly, reading speed well above average for his age because it was almost all he did with his free time. However, he did not understand all of the official language and wording used in the document in the data pad; it was like the writer of it was used to writing the long, graceful if wordy text of Old Cybernese. "What does this mean?"

"It means you've been chosen to be Mentored." Ret gave him a small smile. "And not by just anyone. Go to the bottom."

Pads widened his optics at the prospect of being Mentored, and he quickly scrolled to the bottom as Ret said.

His optics widened again.

At the bottom of the document was the signature of Grand Archivist Alpha Trion. The oldest and wisest mech of all Cybertron _and_ the Moons. The wisest person in the galax—no, the wisest person in the _universe_.

Well, Pads was probably exaggerating with that last one. But still. The _Grand Archivist_ was requesting to be his Mentor? The mere act of someone taking on a student less than eighteen vorns old was incredibly rare.

What did that make Alpha Trion himself asking for a student just _twelve_ vorns old? It had to be a prank of some sort.

Pads handed the data pad back to Ret. "I believe there has been a mistake, Floor Master."

Ret's smile just grew. "There was no mistake, Pads. An Archivist was the one who dropped that off. Had a superhero cape on and everything."

Pads couldn't help the very _sparkling_ -like giggle that escaped him for that. When he was younger, he'd innocently asked Ret if the cloaks worn by the Archivists meant they were superheros like from the holocomics he liked to read. The question had drawn random bursts of laughter from Ret for the rest of the cycle. From then on, it became an inside joke between them.

To Pads, it was still a serious matter. There was no way anyone could wear a cape like _that_ and _not_ be a superhero.

But if an Archivist was the one who gave the pad to Ret, that meant the request was real. If the request was real, he had to accept it; it was frowned upon to refuse being Mentored, or delay in accepting Mentorship.

It also meant he wouldn't be around anyone he knew. No Orderhelm. No Silvershock. No Boltshot. No Tracks.

No Ret.

He would be alone. Like he had been before he came here.

His lonely spark started to ache.

"If it's not a mistake, then what do I do?" Asked Pads, trying and failing to push back against the loneliness.

"Get yourself down to the Library, I'd assume."

"But… What about all of you?"

Ret shrugged. "We keep working. Keep getting data to everyone who needs it in the Hall."

That wasn't what he meant…

Understanding dawned in the Floor Master's optics. "You're afraid of going out by yourself."

Pads nodded, not trusting his voice at the moment. He was small enough for his age already. He didn't need his small voice to be even quieter than usual.

Ret turned to address another femme who walked up to her with forums Ret needed to sign, then looked back at Pads once she'd quickly signed them all. "You know I'm not going anywhere; I love the Hall of Records too much."

He knew that, but it didn't do anything to sooth the ache in his chestplates.

"You'll be down with the Grand Archivist most of the time, but I'll still be in the building. So will everyone else. I would be shocked if we didn't see you every cycle. For a few klicks, at least."

That wasn't the same.

Ret sighed again when he gave no indication he was feeling any better. She said nothing to him for a long time, but she also didn't walk away. When there was a matter that needed her attention, someone approached her with it. Then she would address whatever she needed to, and would look back down at him, contemplative. Thoughtful.

At last, she asked, "How about I take you down?"

Pads hated himself for nodding. Hated for acting so much like a little sparkling. He couldn't help it. The others were like family to him. Orderhelm and Silvershock were like his really smart, much-older cousins, always teaching him cool things and showing him how to be a better Page. Boltshot was like his big mischievous sister, making him laugh when he thought there was no way he could. Tracks was his protective older brother. Without question. He didn't tolerate _anyone_ insulting or making fun of Pads.

While Ret… He didn't know how to place.

She looked at one of her Managers. "I'm taking Pads down to the Archives. I'll be back soon."

"Got it. I'll keep us running while you're away," said the Manager, a red mech Pads knew the faceplate of, but not the name. He was new, but Pads found him nicer than the mech he replaced. "Take what time you need."

"Thank you." Ret walked up to Pads and pointed to the elevator they would be taking.

Pads started in that direction. He felt digits on his backplates a moment later, and turned his helm to see Ret had placed her servo between his shoulder-joints and was holding it there. Guiding him he was a lot younger than he was.

Normally, Pads would have asked Ret to remove her servo. He was not a sparkling, and he did not appreciate being treated like one—it was embarrassing.

But this time, he _did_ feel younger. More uncertain. Saddened. He wanted comfort, and without bonds, physical touch was all he had.

He appreciated Ret's gesture.

They entered the elevator, and Ret used her free servo to push the holo button for the Archives—all the down in the basement. A holo panel appeared next to the buttons for the floors, and Ret held the data pad she'd given him up to it.

Since when was _that_ there?

" **Authorization accepted. Destination of Archives: confirmed."**

Pads jumped at the deep, disembodied voice that echoed around the elevator, and Ret laughed. "That was Teletraan-1. The AI that handles cybersecurity for the Hall of Records."

"Since when has there been an AI in the Hall of Records?"

Ret laughed again. "Ever since the Hall of Records was first built."

They became silent after that, the humorous situation offering only a brief reprieve from the overbearing sense of… What? Sadness? Loss? Fear? Pads wasn't really sure _what_ he was feeling.

All he knew was that it wasn't fun.

The elevator descended down into the Hall of Records for a long time, the sheer distance between Floor 555 and the Archives so very painfully obvious. Ret occasionally offered him a smile, but he saw that it didn't quite reach her optics. Maybe she didn't want him to leave, either.

At last the elevator began to slow down. The doors slid open, revealing a long, grey-blue hallway beyond. A golden door was at the far end of the hallway, and a gold and red mech stood in front of it.

Pads want to step forward.

"Come on, let's go," Ret said gently, when Pads didn't immediately exit the elevator.

"This is too far away," Pads said.

"Pads."

"Too far."

Ret sighed quietly, and suddenly Pads was looking her in the faceplate. She was crouched low so they were optic level. "Pads. I left Floor 555 to bring you down here. I didn't need to do that; I _wanted_ to. You're struggling with this—with leaving the Floor. There's nothing wrong with that; it's a big choice. But Floor 555 needs me. If you don't make it soon, I can't stay here until you do."

"Refusing to be Mentored isn't seen as a nice thing to do. It makes the one who offered look bad."

"Yes, that's true. But we live in Iacon, Pads. In the end, it doesn't matter if _you_ make the Grand Archivist look bad. What matters is what you _choose_. This is your choice, and your choice alone, Pads. What is it going to be?"

Pads stood there silently, considering. He wanted to be Mentored. Anyone who was Mentored ended up being a really, _really_ smart person. An important person whose knowledge was sought and respected. At least, that's what he'd read; without actually being in a High-Caste, he didn't know if that was true. But if he was Mentored, he wouldn't be around anyone he knew, and he wanted to be around the people he knew on Floor 555.

He felt as if his spark was pulling him one way, and his CPU was pulling him another. He didn't like the feeling—it hurt him.

"Pads," Ret said gently. "You need to choose."

Pads looked at Ret, over to the door at the other side of the hallway, then back to Ret. His spark and CPU waged the final stages of their war, and his CPU won. "I'm going to be Mentored."

Ret smiled. A wide, fond grin she rarely gave. Pads always liked it when she smiled like that. It made him happy. "Good little mech." She gestured to the door with her helm. "Now go find the Grand Archivist. Find your Mentor."

"You're not coming with me to find him?"

She shook her helm. "I can't. I want to, but Floor 555 needs me back. You know how helpless everyone is without me."

Despite how his spark ached at the news, Pads gave a small laugh at her joke. He wasn't going to hear another joke from her in a while...

Ret stepped forward and crouched so they were at optic level. She smiled at him again, and hugged him tightly. "I'm going to miss seeing you all the time, Pads. But know that I'm proud of you, for going out on your own."

The emotions Pads was desperately trying to hold back suddenly became twice as hard to ignore. In his struggle to remain calm and big mechling-like, he could only manage a short response, "Thank you. Tell the others I said bye."

"I will." Ret hugged him a little tighter, then let go and returned to her full height. She walked back into the elevator and pressed a button. "See you soon, Pads."

"Bye." He waved, fighting back the urge to follow her into the elevator and keeping his data pad close to his chestplates.

She smiled and waved back, her own optics sad. Then the doors closed, and she was gone.

It was then that Pads knew where to place her in his family. What role she'd played all along.

Mother.

She'd made Security stand down when he'd been wandering the public zone of the Hall of Records and accidentally entered a secure area. She'd cared for him when she found out he had no family. She'd helped teach him to read and write along with the rest of their little group. She'd been the most worried when he insisted on becoming a Page like everyone around her. She'd been there whenever his spark pained being alone, and let him cry into her side.

She was not his carrier. That was too formal, and lacked emotion. Nor had she _carried_ him. But she certainly fit the description of a mother.

The realization he wouldn't be able to tell her that for a long time hurt.

Pads fought against the sudden urge to cry. He'd chosen this. This was a chance to be the best he could be. And apparently the Grand Archivist thought the best he could be was to be Mentored.

He would see to that.

Pads turned around and walked down the hallway, his little pedes making equally little echos up and down the hallway with each step. As he heard those echos, he felt steadily less and less confident. This hallway was _big_. Really big. How big was the room beyond it? How many people worked in it? Would they all look at him when he entered?

Pads hoped they wouldn't.

As he continued down the hallway, he noticed just how long the hallway really was. It had looked to be just a couple hundred meters long when he and Ret came down in the elevator, but now that he was walking inside, it was clearly several times as long. And tall, too; its ceiling was better than a hundred feet above his helm.

Pads noticed the mech standing in front of the door was watching him, now. Studying. His golden gaze made Pads nervous.

"Stop there," the gold and red mech said, and Pads stopped dead in his tracks.

The mech approached Pads, heavy steps echoing down the hallway. He was not the largest mech Pads had seen—Treads was half again his height—but he was definitely taller than an average mech. His gold and red armor looked freshly polished, and the three-armed rune etched into his shoulder identified him as a Guardian—a group of soldiers who dedicated their lives to defending the Hall of Archives. They were not usually seen by other workers within the Archives, but everyone knew they were everywhere. Watching for threats from their hidden places.

"How did you get down here, youngling?" The Guardian asked.

"Um… Uh…" Pads stuttered, nervous. This was the first Guardian he'd seen in person. Ret had told him she'd seen them a few times, but she'd never said how _intimidating_ they were. Now that he had one in front of him, Pads could say that the Guardians had a certain air around them, a certain authority, that made Pads feel like he really _shouldn't_ have been there. Maybe the data pad really was a joke. Maybe he really needed to leave.

"What's that data pad you're holding?" Asked the Guardian, looking at the data pad in Pads' servos.

Pads tried to get his mouth to work. To explain what was on the data pad and his reason for being down here. All that came out was a quiet, "Uh…"

The Guardian sighed. "Just hand it here, kid."

Pads did just that. The Guardian looked at the data pad for just a moment before looking up again, one optic ridge raised. "You're to be Mentored by the Grand Archivist?"

"Apparently," whispered Pads.

"Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?"

"You're a scary mech."

The Guardian sighed again, and Pads got the impression he did that a lot. "We Guardians need to be scary to faces we haven't seen before. I would apologize, but I was just doing my job. You understand that?"

Pads nodded.

"Good." The Guardian's optics dimmed for micro-klick, then brightened. He walked to a panel next to the door, and started entering a code. "Now that I know who you are, you'll get no more trouble from me. But be assertive next time you get challenged, kid. You know you had a good reason to be down here, but you didn't tell me when I challenged you. You're going to be challenged a lot in life. Don't freeze up when it does."

"I'll try."

"Also good." The Guardian finished entering the code, and the golden door started to slowly slide open, filling the hallway with a great rumble as the heavy door moved.

Pads watched it open, waiting to see details of the room beyond.

When he did, his jaw dropped.

The door opened into a massive room, multiple square kilometers in area. Its ceiling was four or five times higher than the hallway's, and great chandeliers made of blue, green, red, and white star crystals hung above rows and rows and rows of book shelves, glowing with light the color of the crystal it was built from. Not data chips or pads— _books_. Physical books like he'd read about in historical data pads, with each one able to hold a trillion, trillion exabytes of data.

Archivists moved here and there, their capes of red and gold billowing behind them, each cape etched with a Primic rune at its center. They were mech and femme of all builds and optic colors. Some had additional Primic runes painted on their helms, both as decoration and as signs they held a higher rank than others.

And just as Pads feared, everyone within a respectable distance stopped what they were doing and looked at Pads when they heard the door open.

Pads froze at the attention, cooling fans activating. He shrank back from the door, trying to make himself appear smaller. If he made himself appear insignificant enough, maybe they would go back to work.

The Archivists continued staring at him. Not in hostility, annoyance, or even curiosity—they just _stared_. As if they were expecting him, and were waiting to properly introduce himself.

"Be assertive, kid," the Guardian reminded.

Pads felt a surge of courage run through him as he heard those words again. He was not here by mistake. The Grand Archivist _himself_ was going to be his Mentor. He should not be embarrassed by the attention he was getting; he should stand there _proudly_ and show just how worthy he was to be chosen by the Grand Archivist.

He took a deep breath, making himself stand straighter. Then he summoned all the courage given to him by the Guardian, drew upon all the information he'd learned from reading data pads, and prepared himself to say the wisest, most inspiring thing he had ever said in his life, "Hi…"

The Pit take his stupid mouth!

… Wait, did he just curse in his CPU? Oh, Ret was going to be _so_ angry when she found out!

The group of Archivists stared at him a moment longer, then almost collectively returned to their work, while the Guardian at the door sighed quietly.

So much for a good first impression.

A Guardian seemed to materialize out of the group of busy Archivists. Like the first Guardian, he was taller than an average mech, and his armor was polished. "Come. The Grand Archivist is expecting you."

That both did and did not surprise Pads. It surprised him because the Grand Archivist could not have known when Pads would return to find the data pad, and it did not surprise Pads because the Grand Archivist was smarter and wiser than anyone; he could have predicted a time for when Pads would arrive.

Pads wordlessly followed the second Guardian. He was led through the room and into another that looked exactly like the first. Then after being led through that one, and doing his best to ignore the stares he got from the Archivists, the Guardian led him into a third room that was smaller and only led to a glowing blue door.

The Guardian leading Pads walked up to a group of three Guardians acting as sentries and pointed to Pads. "This is the one the Grand Archivist sent for."

The other Guardians looked at Pads, optics all golden and unblinking. Serious.

Pads shrank back to hide behind the one who'd been leading him. Guardians were _intimidating_.

"He is younger than others the Grand Archivist has Mentored," one of the group observed.

"And smaller," said another.

The third Guardian held his servo out to Pads. "The data pad."

Pads gave it to the third Guardian, who—unlike the others—had blue with his armor instead of red. He only looked at the data pad for a moment before nodding and sub-spacing it. "It is as Watcher Holdout said. Open the door."

The two Guardians to either side of the gold and blue one placed their servos against panels at either side of the door. It started to swing open a micro-klick later, and the gold and blue Guardian ushered Pads through the door as the Guardian who'd led him to the room walked away to return to his post.

The room beyond the door was large and circular, with a single chandelier made of white star crystals hanging in the center of the ceiling. The floor was made of a material Pads had never seen before, and it glowed around his feet wherever he stepped.

But most striking were the holoscreens.

Thousands of them, none showing the same thing, covering the walls. He could barely keep up with the information being displayed on just a few at once, let alone all at once.

Sitting at a desk in the center of the room was the single largest mech Pads had ever seen. Not even Treads was his size, or had the same strength in his shoulder-joints. Golden Primic runes decorated his deep purple armor, centered at shoulder-joints and his bright blue optics—optics that spoke of an age, wisdom, and intelligence that left Pads in awe.

He went to continue on to the mech who _obviously_ was Grand Archivist Alpha Trion, but the Guardian behind him stopped him by setting a servo on Pads' tiny shoulder-joints. "Wait until the Grand Archivist finishes his conversation."

It was just then that Pads noticed the Grand Archivist was speaking to the hologram of an old-looking, hunched mech Pads did not recognize. He felt foolish for not seeing the hologram earlier.

"... In the end, I believe the decision is yours, Sentinel," Alpha Trion said. His voice fit his appearance. Deep and ancient, but not commanding or demanding—wise. Wise beyond all others.

Wait. Sentinel? As in the current Prime? Oh, now Pads felt _a lot_ more foolish.

" _Unfortunately,"_ Sentinel said. _"Thank you for your input, old friend. Take care of yourself."_

"You as well, Prime." The hologram disappeared, and Alpha Trion looked directly at Pads.

Pads froze as he looked directly in the Grand Archivist's ancient optics.

"Grand Archivist," the Guardian behind Pads said. "This is—"

"The youngling I sent for," interrupted Alpha Trion. "I know. You may leave us, Commander."

"Sir." The Commander left the room, leaving Pads alone with Alpha Trion.

Alone with the _Grand Archivist._

For a long time, neither of them said anything. Pads was too intimidated to talk, and Alpha Trion seemed content to just look down at him. Studying him silently. It made Pads even more intimidated.

Then he noticed that the holoscreen over Alpha Trion's shoulder was showing a group of people talking about the fire in the Mines of Kaon.

Pads had been following the story since it first appeared in the news, even when Ret told him bots his age shouldn't watch such depressing things. He wanted to know what caused the fire, and who had been hurt by it. The important bots who were interviewed by the news people talked a lot about what caused the fire, but never talked about who had been hurt. How many Miners were injured or offlined.

His spark ached with a sense of loss when thinking about the Miners. He didn't know why.

"Tragic, isn't it?"

Pads blinked, and realized Alpha Trion had spoken to him. "What is?"

"The accident in Kaon," said the Grand Archivist, not looking at the screen. "You are looking at the latest reports related to it."

"Yes. Tragic, I mean."

"And it is good that you think that. All lives are precious to Primus. Rich, poor. Brave, cowardly. It does not matter to him; every life is a gift beyond value. We would do well to remember that as we speak of those who were killed by something so easily avoided."

"Yeah." Pads was not sure what else to say. The deep meaning in the Grand Archivist's words struck something deep within him, but he could not grasp it.

"Forgive me; at times it is easy for me to see someone for their potential, not who they are now. Have you had any energon this cycle?"

Pads was confused by the explanation, but he focused on the question. "No. I don't take a break this early in the cycle."

Alpha Trion nodded and pressed a button on his desk. An energon dispenser rose from the floor next to the desk, and the Grand Archivist took out a small cube from a drawer. "Do you drink a full cube at your break or a half cube?"

Pads was too surprised by the appearance of the energon dispenser to answer. He'd never seen one that wasn't built into a wall. He'd read about them, of course, but they were too expensive for use across the Hall of Records.

"I will take that as a sign you need a full cube." Alpha Trion placed the cube under the dispenser, and it folded back into the floor once the cube was full. Then he pressed another button, and a chair small enough for Pads rose from the floor in front of the desk. "Come. Sit and drink your energon."

Pads stayed in place. He had been comfortable talking to Alpha Trion about the Mines of Kaon, but this was another matter. He didn't like relaxing around people who intimidated him, and the Grand Archivist was the most intimidating person he'd never met.

Alpha Trion looked at Pads expectantly for a moment, then hummed. "Very well." He stood up, and Pads' optics immediately went to the Grand Archivist's cape. It was transparent with a purple tint, highlighted with thirteen different gold and silver Primic runes in a circle. It was both pleasing and painful to stare at for too long.

Pads' fascination with Alpha Trion's cape was broken when the Grand Archivist crouched down in front of him and held the cube out to him.

Pads blinked. No one outside his little group had ever gone to him and offered energon. Not on the street. Not in the Hall of Records. Almost everyone outside his group looked at Pads as someone beneath them, not worth their time. But the Grand Archivist himself was kind enough to not only offer it, but to take it to him when he saw Pads wasn't comfortable enough to step forward? The idea seemed incredible to Pads.

Slowly and carefully, Pads accepted the small cube and took a sip. "Thank you."

Alpha Trion smiled, a sight that seemed to go with his ancient faceplate. "It is my pleasure to provide for others." He waited until Pads had taken another sip before asking, "Do you understand why I called you here?"

"You wish to Mentor me. Being Mentored allows one to be given an education in all academic topics. History. Science. Mathematics," said Pads, quoting from a data pad he once read on the topic. "Those who are Mentored are also given a review of their placement in the caste system to determine, if they are not already, whether they should be placed into the High-Castes."

Alpha Trion smiled again, but it was sadder than before. Much sadder. Why was he sad? "Yes, I thought you would. You have read much about the caste system."

Pads blinked. "How do you know?"

"I have noticed your name appear frequently within the staff data pad requests. Your reading habits cover a great many topics, including the caste system."

"It's interesting."

"I suppose it would be to someone such as you. You are a very bright young mech—one, I believe, with a very bright and unique future."

"I—um," Pads stuttered, barely able to process that the Grand Archivist had just _complimented him_. "Thank you."

The Grand Archivist stared at him for a moment, silent. Then he asked, "Your presence here obviously means you accept my request to Mentor you, but why have you not brought your belongings with you?"

Pads had been going to take another sip, but when Alpha Trion asked that, he paused. "I was allowed to bring my things?"

"Of course. If I am to be your Mentor, I do not intend on you being uncomfortable."

"But delaying in accepting a Mentorship is rude."

The Grand Archivist shook his helm and gave Pads a patient look. One Pads had only seen Ret give him. "That may be, but that unwritten rule usually applies for those who take more than a few solar-cycles to send an answer."

"Oh…" Now Pads felt bad. He could have gotten all the things the others had given him since he came into the Hall of Records. He loved their gifts. But now that he was here, he couldn't get them. He was really stupid…

"Those negative thoughts ringing in your helm have no purpose there. Do not let them cause you grief." Alpha Trion stood and walked to his desk, not-cape billowing, and pressed a button. "My new Mentoree has no personal belongings with him. See to it that Floor Master Ret is made aware of this, and give the rest of the cycle off to Pages Orderhelm, Silvershock, Boltshot, and Tracks so that they may assist her. The Floor Master will understand."

" _Yes, sir,"_ said a voice from the desk. Someone at the other side of a comm. They said nothing else.

Pads was elated. The Grand Archivist was sending his family down here with his things? He'd be able to give them all a proper goodbye! Tell them how excited he was to be Mentored, but how much he was going to miss them how much they meant to him! He was so excited, he couldn't help but start bouncing on his pedes.

Alpha Trion saw this and chuckled. "I thought seeing your adopted family would please you."

Pads went still. "How do you know they're my family?"

"I research those I choose to Mentor. In your case, I know you were alone when you came here. I know you view Floor Master Ret and her group of best Pages as family. And I know that during the mandatory medical examination Floor Master Ret stalled our doctors in giving you for the last four vorns, it was found your spark has never held a bond." Alpha Trion looked at Pads then, a deep sorrow in his old optics. "You have my very deepest sympathies for that. Those that are around you care greatly for you, but a family bond is something… Beyond that."

Pads thought he saw a tear in the Grand Archivist's optic, but it was gone when Alpha Trion blinked and refocused on Pads. "I also know that you do not have a name."

"I have a name," said Pads. "It's Pads. It's always been Pads."

"No. That was a name given to you when you did not give your proper one. The problem is, you were never given one." Alpha Trion looked at Pads for a long time, then at last nodded to himself. "If you permit, I shall name you Orion Pax—Dawning Peace, in Primic."

Orion… Pads liked that name. He liked it a lot. It sounded heroic! "I want that name!"

Alpha Trion smiled. "Good. Now, your adopted family will not be here for some time, so while they're away I want you to read this." He picked a data pad up from his desk and held it out.

Pads—newly Orion Pax—walked forward and reached up to grab the data pad. It was a data pad containing the history of the Archives. "Why this?"

"Because if you are to be here, you must know and appreciate where you work. Start reading. I want you through Chapter IV by the time your adopted family arrives."

The last words were spoken as a command. Orion immediately went to reading, his entire focus on the data pad. He could not keep the smile off his face.

This… This felt like the start of something right.

* * *

 **The word "Student" inspired this one. And what can I say? I don't have a heart made of stone; I couldn't help but make at least _one_ of these a little happier. Especially with little Orion. He's fun to write. Although, I don't think I've worked with one I didn't like yet. Hmm.**

 **I cheated a little with this one on its length, but I'm not going to apologize. I like how this turned out, and I probably won't have another chapter of this length until I've finished introducing everyone.**

 **Please let me know what you thought of this update, and thank you for reading.**

 **See you soon.**


	7. Wonder

**This took a frustrating amount of time to write. Oh, well. No use in beating myself up over it; I do enough of that.**

 **Seeker3 - Not a problem!**

 **Thank you. I also like the meaning I created for Orion's name. I know it's not canon, but that's why there's Fanfiction, right?**

 **I just read it. It's quite a funny one-shot. Clever in its concept. And as for that question you asked: no. The mech in the first chapter of this has been said to be Ironhide. If you were referring to Zetta in chapter 2, that is another RAFO.**

 **Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.**

* * *

She consulted the schedule she held. She was assigned to six separate events this time. Two more than last cycle.

Great. Now she needed to play sparklingsitter to _half a dozen_ entitled scientists. Like four hadn't raised her energon pressure enough.

She sighed and made her way toward the first event on her schedule. She felt optics on her—both mech and femme, and almost all because of her height—but the crowd parted for the Staff badge she wore. That was good; the Terminus Center was one of the most crowded areas in all of Cybertron during events like this, and she had a schedule to keep.

The Terminus Center had been built more than eight centi-vorns ago by Eternal Technologies, the only true rival to Sol Industries. The Center had hundreds of floors, as every building in Iacon's Northern Quadrant did, but the only floor that saw a lot of use by the public was the Entertainment Floor.

Built at street-level, the Entertainment Floor was built for expos, sporting events, fairs, concerts, and vid premiers. Right now, the Terminus Center was being used for the Iacon International Expo. All the greatest companies, mega-corporations, scientists, entertainment companies, and artists were gathered here to display their latest creations—the most awe-inspiring inventions, shows, and products for the amazement of all.

Some of them came from unexpected places, as well. Such as the public entries.

Due to Iacon's political and civil freedoms, the public had the right to bring their businesses, amateur inventions, and sideshows to the Expo. Some of these had become nearly as famous as the Expo itself, such as the House of Phobos—a traveling entertainment show that started at the Expo and returned every solar-cycle. Others… Weren't so famous.

And unfortunately for her, she'd been assigned to the latter.

She continued her way through the crowd, passing by more interesting events and attractions that she could count, each time her curiosity wanting her to stop and learn more. But they could wait; her assignments couldn't.

"Good people of the Iacon International Expo!"

A tremendous cheer echoed around her, and she slowed down and looked up. She was in front of the main stage, the most popular destination for the crowds. The person who spoke was an impossibly handsome mech standing on stage, dressed in high-quality armor that he couldn't have _possibly_ been born with. A Spokesperson, one who'd modified their frame for their job. What event was this? There shouldn't have been anything going on at the main stage for another half breem.

She checked the schedule. The event for Sol Industries had been moved up due to "unforeseen circumstances." Whatever that meant. She went to move on, but stopped. Sol Industries always had some of the best events, and drew enormous crowds. Those crowds would part for her, of course, but her boss didn't need to know that. And her first event wasn't scheduled for another twenty-five klicks…

Catching part of _one_ event couldn't hurt.

She came to a full stop and turned her attention to the stage as the mech went on.

"Welcome to the Sol Industries Annual Presentation!"

The rapidly-growing crowd cheered again, and once more as a holographic display suddenly came to life gave a short but incredibly complex and beautiful light show that ended with the Sol Industries logo sweeping over the crowd—a perfectly circular glowing blue sphere with a silver Primic rune in the center.

She found it a bit much. Everyone already they were at the Sol Industries event. They didn't need to be reminded of it.

The mech on stage paused, looking over the crowd like they were all old friends. "Good to be here early. How you all doing tonight?"

The crowd cheered as one; she just waited.

"I'll take that as good. Wow, looks like we have quite a crowd already, and more coming in. How many of you came to the Expo just to see what Sol Industries brought here to blow your collective CPUs?"

Another cheer from the crowd. The loudest one yet.

The Sol Industries spokemech smiled. "That's good, because we have some _incredible_ things to show you tonight. And no, it's not how quickly Eternal Technologies' stock price has fallen."

The crowd laughed, though she saw a near few her who didn't. Nor did she.

The holographic display powered up again. It showed a real-time feed of Eternal Technologies' stock price for the last six jours, with a sixty percent drop in the last four mega-cycles. "Well, it's not the _only_ thing we brought in to show you."

Another laugh from the crowd, but more subdued than before.

She found the joke in bad taste. Everyone knew the accident at the Mines of Kaon was hitting the planet-wide economy hard, and Eternal Technologies was being hit even more because it was their demo charges that caused the accident. It hadn't been entirely their fault. They were pressed by House Commerce to get the E-20 charges finished or pay a hefty fine for failing to phase out the E-19 charges, which Commerce claimed were not as stable as they claimed.

She found it convenient the company that had the most to gain from Eternal Technologies releasing a faulty product was owned and run by a mech who _also_ was third-in-line for the head of House Commerce.

"Okay, let's get that out of here." The mech onstage made a dismissive gesture, and the feed of Eternal Technologies' stock went away. "Back to business. How did you all like that light show at the start?"

A cheer.

"Well, that's good. I'm sure my bosses will be quite happy to hear our newest version of the Ionic-series Light Display pleases the public! But I'm sure a few fancy lights aren't what you want to see here tonight, am I _right_?!"

Another cheer. Deafening this time. She couldn't help but join in; the crowd's excitement was contagious.

The mech on stage laughed. "I will take _that_ as a yes! Let's get right into the good stuff, then! We'll start it off in the latest of personal protection!"

A section of the stage at the other end of the mech opened, and out of it came a medium-sized missile on a rack surrounded by technicians wearing armor with the colors and logo of Sol Industries. Whispers went through the crowd at the sight of the weapon.

"Not to worry!" The mech on stage said. "We brought this with permission from the good Iaconian Armed Forces! No laws being broken here!"

"We're ready," she saw one of the technicians mouth to the mech.

The mech gave one of the smallest nods she'd ever seen. The technicians went back to the computers that came with them. "Femmes, mechs, younglings, and sparklings!"

The missile's aim was adjusted by the technicians, and came to point straight at the mech. A worried murmur quickly spread through the crowd. Was the mech about to have a _missile_ shot at him? Was he _insane_?

"I give you…"

The missile started to spin in place, an audible hum carrying through the air. The worried whispers became louder.

"The future of defense!"

The missile launched from its rack.

It raced across the stage, heading straight for the Spokesmech. She thought she was about to see the first-ever fatality at the Iacon International Expo.

But then when the missile got within fifty feet of the Spokesmech, it went straight up in the air. Like it had somehow changed to a different target close to the Terminus Center ceiling.

The missile ran out of fuel after micro-klick, and was picked out of the air by a Seeker she hadn't seen hovering in the air. They flew away as soon as they had the missile.

There was a brief time when no one in the crowd—including her—understood what happened. They followed the Seeker for longer than they needed to, then went back to the smiling Spokesmech on stage. Then to the departing technicians and empty missile rack.

At last, it all clicked together.

A great cheer rang out from the crowd. The loudest one yet. She joined in with a single cheer and clap.

The mech on stage let it continue for a long time, then at last raised his servo. "Okay, people. Settle down. I still need to continue my sales pitch!"

She heard a few laughs mix in with the cheers, but slowly everyone quieted down.

"Thank you. Now, you probably have some questions. The only one that matters is: what just happened? Well, to answer that, that missile—one of our Revenant MK III Anti-personnel models—just had its targeting system hacked. The next question you probably have is how. And the answer to that is this."

The holographic displays came alive again, this time showing the feed of a camera that must have been hidden behind the Spokesmech; it showed an image of his back. At the back of his neck, hidden from sight simply due to how he had not turned his back to the crowd, there was a small black box.

"What you see is the NMDS—the Neurological Munitions Defense System. Smart bullets, missiles, mortars, grenades. All of them depend on computers to do their job. The NMDS makes sure those computers are effectively useless inside a certain range. As soon as this little gadget connects to your CPU, you could walk through a battlefield and be safer than the most heavily armored soldier."

The crowd cheered, but she—and a few others she saw around her—didn't. There was something… Wrong about connecting a CPU to a computer. CPUs were already incredibly powerful, why couldn't they have found a way to use a CPUs natural power to do what the NMDS did? Why did it connect _to_ the CPU? If it was programmed to do one thing, what use could it have in connecting to a CPU?

She didn't like it.

"But unfortunately, we can't make something that will bring those heavily armored soldiers home," said the Spokesmech. "... Or can we?"

A chill went down her spine. Surely they weren't…

"What if I told there was a way that reduced military casualties to zero?" The Spokesmech gazed over the crowd, looking at them intensely with his unnaturally deep optics. Another modification. "What if I told you that all of your brave mechs and femmes could come home? That your fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, sisters, and brothers never had to see combat again? What would you say to that?"

A deafening cheer. Brought on entirely by military families who didn't want their loved ones in danger. She was sure no one was thinking of what the Spokesmech was about to present.

"Well, good people. I have _news_ for _you!_ I am _proud_ to present to you, for the first time in public, the Sol Security Drone!"

The entire back section of the stage opened up. Platforms hidden from view like the missile rack rose up into view. Three ranks of what appeared to be slate grey mechs came into view, servos behind their backs.

Only they weren't mechs. They were machines. Designed. Built. Hallow. Without a soul.

She was transfixed by the sight of them. Their perfect formation. Their too-thin helms. Their single yellow optic band that looked emotionlessly out into the crowd.

So very _unnatural_.

"The Sol Security Drone is the perfect soldier. Loyal. Obedient. Disciplined. _Deadly._ We've tested them extensively, and have found that a single unit of these Drones are as effective as _three_ units of soldiers."

She knew _how_ they tested them. Taking over minor cities that had no firm ties to city-nations. _Killing_ their locals.

"And when you place a Command Unit with a group of Drones, oh my. _That's_ a sight to see! And this type of protection could soon be yours!"

That's it; she couldn't take this anymore.

She walked away, crowd moving out of her path when they saw her badge. She couldn't take how that mech on stage was trying to _sell_ the Sol Drones to the crowd. She'd read the news reports of what Sol Industries was doing with those drones. She knew how many had already been killed by them. And Sol Industries was just _ignoring_ that? It made her sick.

The sounds of the Sol Industries event faded behind her. She passed other events without even giving them a glance, such was her mood. Sol Industries had just ruined her desire to watch events this cycle.

And yet, she had at least six she needed to be present for.

Great.

She neared where her first event was scheduled. It was outside the central area, where the biggest events were. She was in one of the public zones, where anyone could bring anything. What was she doing here? Her schedule said this event was made up of a scientist's presentations.

She looked around for someone who might have been waiting for the event, but there was no one standing nearby. The sign advertising an event was dark, looking like it hadn't been turned on all cycle. And it looked like no one was backstage, either. What was going on here?

Reaching down to her hip, she took out a portable comm. "Hey, Cliffjumper?"

" _Yeah?"_ Came the mech's reply. Cliffjumper was a Junior Coordinator, in charge of her schedule along with four others. As far as she could tell from their occasional interactions, he was a decent mech.

"What's the status of Event 488?"

" _That event's on schedule to begin in… Wait, that's_ your _event. What are you doing calling me for?"_

"Because I'm here, but no one else is."

" _Huh? Give me a klick."_ There was a pause. She imagined he was going through the records in front of him, checking to see if the event had been canceled or delayed without them being notified. _"No delays, although the presenter isn't answering the comm we gave him. Seems like it's still on."_

"Doesn't look like it, but alright. Thanks."

" _What I'm here for."_

She put the comm back on her hip and approached the stage. Now that she was closer, she could hear some noise from behind the stage. It sounded like someone working with tools. "Hello?" She called.

No answer. The person changed what tool they were using.

"Hello? Are you back there…" She checked her schedule, having not bothered to read the presenter's name until now. "Wheelhack? I've been assigned as your Advisor for your event."

"Uh-oh…" Said a mech's voice from behind the stage. Immediately after, the sounds of tools being used was drowned out by a high-pitched whine.

Then an explosion.

Not a big or loud one. Or one that left her knocked on her aft and a ringing in her audio receptors. But _definitely_ an explosion.

She had just reached for her comm to get some fire suppression units in the area, when a mech stumbled out from backstage. He was average height for a mech, leaving him a few feet shorter than she was. He had two fins on either side of his helm that were flashing with green light. Over his mouth, there was a mask.

The mech coughed, and smoke came out from his mask. He went to brush some blackened debris from his shoulders, but stopped when he saw her standing there. "Oh, hello!" He said with a wave. He sounded far more relaxed and cheerful than someone who just had something blow up in their faceplate should have.

She blinked at the mech, shocked. How was he acting so casual? He just had something _blow up_ in front of him! "Are you okay?"

"Never better!" His fins flashed blue, dimmed slightly due to the soot that covered them. "Well, almost. Would have been nice to finish up my side project. I seem to have had a… Setback of sorts."

"Are you sure? Do you want a medic to check you over?"

"Oh, do not trouble yourself. I am quite fine!"

"You just went through an _explosion_."

"And it happens more often than you'd think!" The mech brushed himself off, the soot creating a cloud around him. Once he was free of the black material, she saw he had armor that was a very nice shade of green. He turned his attention to her once he'd cleaned himself. "Oh, I'm sorry; I don't think I got your name. Are you here for my presentation?"

She was again amazed at how relaxed the mech was. She pushed that aside and went to business. "In a way. My name's Arcee—I've been assigned as your Advisor for your presentation, Mister Wheelhack."

"Oh, Wonderful! But please, lose the title, and call me Whee _jack_. That is the name I submitted to the Expo."

She brought up her schedule and showed it to him. "Not according to this."

He leaned forward to examine the data pad, narrowing his kindly blue optics to see the small text. His fins flashed green, but a darker shade than Arcee had seen before. "Hmm. Interesting. Wonder how that happened? Oh, no matter. Call me what you wish, Arcee. Now, you said something about being my Advisor?"

She nodded, used to hearing the question, or a variant of it. "Yes. All presenters are given the option of asking for an Advisor for their events."

"Why?"

… Was he being serious right now? He didn't even _know_ what Advisors did? How they showed presenters the best way to draw in the audience, maximize the appeal of their event? Did he even know _how_ the presentation process worked at the Expo?

From the way he was continuing to look at her, optics friendly and very curious, Arcee thought the answer was no.

"Wheeljack—do you know what Advisors are supposed to do for presenters?"

"Advise, I'd presume."

Oh, so he was a wisecracker, too. She _really_ didn't want to deal with that at the moment. "I am asking for specifics. Details. Do you know the _exact_ job of Advisors at the Expo?"

"Afraid I don't."

"Then why did you ask for an Advisor at your event?"

"I asked for an Advisor?"

Her optic twitched. Oh, for the love of Primus. She was dealing with an _idiot_. Just like last cycle started out. "Yes," she said, managing to keep her voice calm. The Expo trained its staff well. "When you registered to present here at the Expo, you selected the option for an Advisor to be provided for you. The Advisor fee was listed clearly in your bill."

Wheeljack's fins flashed their dark shade of green again, and he looked up in the air, thoughtful. "One moment." He stepped backstage again, and reappeared a few micro-klicks later, holding a data pad that had been blackened with soot. He spent a few more micro-klicks looking it over, then hummed. "Hmm. It appears I did. Knew I should have looked over the paperwork before signing it."

"You didn't even _review_ it?" She asked, optic ridges raised.

"Of course not! Paperwork is tiresome, and keeps me away from my inventions. When I need to deal with paperwork, I just sign wherever there is a section to sign, and send it back. Easier that way."

Yes, for _him_. She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nasal plate. "So you don't want an Advisor."

"Not originally, no."

Arcee gave him a look.

"Well, you're here, and it seems I asked for you without intending to. Might as well make use of your services, yes?"

That was the best thing that could come out of this misunderstanding. Sometimes, presenters would complain about the Advisors they were provided. Or complain that an Advisor came to their event at all when _they_ had asked for one. Arcee was thankful Wheeljack was at least being flexible. "Of course," she said. She pointed up at the unlit sign. "The first thing I would suggest would be to turn th—"

"Would you like some energon cake?"

Arcee went silent and looked back at Wheeljack. He was looking at her earnestly, bright optics friendly and waiting. "What?"

"Energon cake. I know this wonderful family who owns a lovely establishment at the Southern Quadrant. They make the best energon cookies and cakes. They were nice enough to give me one for luck before I came here! Care for a piece?"

The Southern Quadrant. Home to the most poor families in Iacon. Well, poor by _Iaconian_ standards; its local economy was still greater than half the other city-nations of Cybertron. She loved that section of Iacon. It felt so at peace. "Um… Sure."

"Great! Follow me!"

Wheeljack led her backstage. She was immediately struck by the sheer _amount_ of junk Wheeljack brought with him. Everywhere she looked, there was junk stacked in piles. Spare parts, cans, scrap metal, broken duraglass. Much of it laid on its own, but some of it had been put together to make odd devices she couldn't identify. One of these devices was blackened and in pieces. The source of the explosion she heard earlier.

"Now, pardon me for a moment," Wheeljack said. "I need to find the cake. I never did _check_ where they put it."

"What is all this?" She asked.

Wheeljack's fins flashed a light green as he moved a strange-looking contraption built from old power capacitors. "What is what?"

" _This_." She made a wide gesture to everything around them.

"Oh." A faint yellow flashed from Wheeljack's fins before he disappeared behind a _wall_ of junk. "Well, you know, this and that. Few work-related things I need to do for some people back at the Southern Quadrant. Mostly, they are projects I have yet to finish."

"Personal projects?"

"Yes."

"And you brought them to the Expo?"

"I had meant to just take _one_ project with me to keep me busy before my presentation, but I couldn't decide what to take. So I took them all! Ah-ha, here it is!" Wheeljack reappeared, carrying with him a small energon cake. She could tell it had been made with energon that was only partially crystallized, leaving the core a semi-liquid. Her favorite type of energon cake. "They put it next to the energon recycler."

"How di—wait, energon recycler?"

"Yes. My own intention. As you know, energon turns to gas when used by machinery. The gas isn't harmful to us, but it _is_ harmful to organic plants and creatures; that's why all organic animals are kept far from city-nations. My invention captures the gas, and returns it to its liquid energon state."

That sounded… Legitimately impressive. _Very_ impressive. Far more impressive than just capturing a gas harmful to organics. If done on a planet-wide scale, Cybertron's energy crisis would end overnight. They'd be completely energy independent, like the Onyxian Collective. No more imports from the Quintesson Empire. Given Cybertron's energon reserves, they would even be able to _export_ energon to the Moons. This had the potential to send the entire system into a new Golden Age.

That is, if it worked.

"And it works as you described?" She asked.

"Oh, yes." Wheeljack broke off a piece of the energon cake, placed it on a flat piece of metal, and handed it to her. "Well, most of the time. Some of the time."

Arcee raised an optic ridge at the second part of Wheeljack's statement.

His fins flashed, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "It occasionally works."

"And what happens when it doesn't?"

"... It might… Um… Detonate the gas."

Arcee blinked slowly. "Detonate _energon gas_."

"Yes."

"The same gas that burns at the same temperature as the surface as some stars."

"... Yes?"

Arcee blinked again. Then she shook her helm. "I don't mean to offend you when I say this, but I understand why you're in the public entries and not presenting with a large company."

Wheeljack waved a servo. "Oh, that's not offensive at all. I don't have anything solid to present them. Most of my projects are a… Work in progress."

Giving another look at everything he had lying around, Arcee had little doubt of that. She put the piece of energon she'd been given down. "Then what were you planning on presenting at your event?"

His fins flashed, and he looked between her and the cake. "Aren't you going to eat your cake?"

"To be blunt, I am here as your Advisor. Not your friend."

"Then you _don't_ want a piece of cake?"

"No."

"Alright. I'll just have that piece later!" He placed the piece—and the cake itself—to the side. "What is your advice, Advisor?"

"First, answer my question: what are you going to present?"

Wheeljack picked up a small, square metal box and held it up. Small crystals were embedded into each of the box's sides. "This."

"A box?"

"Not a box." He tapped a digit against a crystal on top of the box.

Light burst forth from each side of the box. Blue. Green. Red. They shot out in bright beams so intense, Arcee couldn't look into them. When the beams hit an object, they fractured and split, turning one beam into two, three, or four. And when those secondary beams hit something, they split, too. In a moment, there were hundreds of them all around the room.

And they _hurt her optics_.

"What is that?" She asked, holding her servo up to shield her optics from the light.

Wheeljack seemed completely oblivious to it. "This? This is a holo projector!"

Arcee's thoughts went to the light show at the Sol Industries event. Those lights had been more complex, yet they didn't hurt like this did. "Then can you turn it down, please?"

"What? Oh! Right."

The intensity of the lights became bearable. She lowered her servo once they had. "So you want to present a projector at your event. I was under the impression you were going to present something of your own creation."

Wheeljack's fins flashed. "But this _is_ my creation. I built it!"

"Yes, but anyone with knowledge of holographic technology could, too."

His fins flashed again, brighter than before. "Oh, not _this_ projector. This one is unique."

"In what way?"

"This one can create _solid_ light."

And she was a vid star who lived in Ila Heights. "Forgive me if I don't believe you at all."

Arcee swore Wheeljack smiled behind his mask. "A little demonstration, then. Let me ask: is it okay if I scan you?"

She gave him a _look_ for that. A hard one.

His fins flashed purple, servo held out in a placating manner. "Not one of _those_ scans! It would be like taking a picture. No deeper information than that. I swear to you on all of my inventions."

Arcee continued giving him a hard look. Had the request come from any other mech, she'd have punched them. Presenter or not. But she'd always been good at knowing when someone was being dishonest, and he didn't set off any alarms.

"Fine. But I _will_ be making sure that's all it's for, and it had _better_ be _exactly_ as you say it is."

"It will be," Wheeljack affirmed with a nod. "Honest to Primus. You can even check the tool before I use it."

"I will."

Wheeljack used his helm to gesture to a small tool on the table next to him. "That's what you're looking for, there."

Arcee picked up the small, rectangular device. It appeared to be a camera and scanner meshed together. Nothing about it made her suspicious. She handed the device to Wheeljack.

"Thank you," he said with flashing fins. He struggled for a moment with holding both devices at once, but soon got a handle on them. "Now, just stand still for a moment." Again, she felt that he smiled, then he pressed the button on the camera-scanner.

The countless beams of light shooting around the room disappeared as the primary beams refocused or turned off. A single beam shot out and swept over from her helm down to the base of her feet. It didn't tingle like the rare medical scans she needed did.

The beam that went over her disappeared into the projector. So did the other beams that had remained on, leaving the room feeling oddly dark.

Then the projector flashed, and Arcee found herself staring into her own azure optics.

She jumped back, startled, before examining the hologram. It was an image of her. Not a perfect one—it was transparent, her back was flat, and her dimensions were off. But other than that, it was spectacular.

It… Reminded her of happier times. When she got to spend _all_ _cycle_ playing and drawing in the Gardens. When Trion had more time to spend with them. When she still got along with Ariel. When Chromia told her stories in the dark of her room, with the lights out and a holobook opening her young processor to wonder.

"Aren't you going to touch it?"

She blinked, and her memories were pushed aside. She touched the hologram, and found it semi-solid. Not solid, not liquid, not light. It was an interesting display. "The image is good for how quick the scan was. How did you want to present this?"

Wheeljack's fins flashed, and his helm tilted slightly to the right. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine. Would a late-reveal be an acceptable presentation for this?"

Wheeljack continued to look at her for a few moments. Then at last, he accepted her dismissal of the topic, and nodded.

She ended up helping Wheeljack throughout his entire presentation. Even with things he thought he never would have needed help with. She parted with him well, and carried on with her cycle. The rest of the presenters assigned to her were far less friendly, but she helped them, too.

But even after the Expo ended for the cycle and she went back to her apartment, her thoughts kept going back to Wheeljack's presentation. To the holo projector, and memories of her sparklinghood.

To the time when Chromia hadn't abandoned her.

* * *

 **So another chapter ends. This one was inspired by "Wonder." It wasn't a prominent theme throughout, but it did come from the word.**

 **Thank you all for reading, and please let me know what you thought.**

 **See you soon.**


	8. Secrecy

**So, life happened this summer. Life, and some really sucky crap, which I won't get into. To summarize it: something happened that has made me reconsider what is important and what is not, so I am trying to figure out what I should do with writing and what I shouldn't. And after a rather disappointing showing of reviews on the last update to Fate Calls given the level of work I put into it, I am now putting all of my fanfictions under a microscope.**

 **So I say this now, up here, where you people are more likely to see it: if you want me to keep writing this story, review. If you don't, I will take your silence as a sign I should just end it after introducing all the characters. I have only so much time to write, and I do not want to end up wasting it on a project that, while I enjoy working on, just doesn't have an audience to support it. It would be like me continuing to write an original work that doesn't make any money at all, while there is a big opportunity for another project that _might_ support me financially.**

 **Okay, unexpected long note over. To the story.  
**

 **Sunsetwater (Chapter 6) - I am very happy to see that you greatly enjoyed that chapter. Little Orion was a lot of fun to write, and coming up with an origin for him that was different than most was a blast. It also makes me happy to hear that you think highly enough of my writing to label me a genius. I will never say that of myself, but it is nice to be called that by someone else.**

 **Thank you for the review, and I hope you like this update (if you end up reading it).**

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The journey in the ground transport was long and unstimulating. Long because wherever he was being taken was far from any city, town, or settlement of any kind, and unstimulating because the windows were blacked out and the two mechs sitting at either side of him didn't say a word the entire time—the last they'd even spoke was when he signed a document he wasn't allowed to read.

At least he wasn't wearing an optic restraint; some BOA Agents were overly fond of those.

He felt the ground transport slow, then stop. Experience told him the transport driver—riding in a compartment separate from where he sat with the Agents—had halted at a security checkpoint to allow guards to check the transport's credentials and ID chips that would tell the guards how many occupants were inside. Their _rousing_ trip was almost at its end.

It took nearly five klicks for the transport to start moving again, the hum of its ionic engine almost silent from inside the interior.

More than twice as long as BOA checkpoints usually hold up arrivals, he thought. There was an even greater emphasis on security here than other BOA sites. Only reason for that would be this location, wherever it was hidden, was a _very_ classified Black Site.

Exciting.

A few klicks went by before the transport came to a stop again. But, instead of getting out like he expected, the two BOA Agents riding with him remained seated. Nor did the automatic lock on the door lift. The transport had stopped a second security checkpoint. Unusual even for a Black Site. What, did they think they'd managed to sneak an assault team into the transport since the last checkpoint?

The transport moved forward, again, after nearly five klicks. It stopped at a _third_ checkpoint soon after. Then stopped a fourth time; however, the fourth stop was the last.

The lock on the transport door gave off an electronic click, signaling the driver unlocking it from the front seat. The Agent to his left got up and hit the door control, and the door silently lowered to form a ramp. He stood up and walked down the ramp when the Agent looked at him expectantly.

The land to his left was a barren mixture of organic stone and inorganic metal. Mountains surrounded the area, towering kilometers above. A great chasm was in front of him, just as deep as the mountains were tall. The road the transport had used was a thin strip of carved-out stone just wide enough for the transport, while one side led into a beyond vertical drop into the chasm below. He couldn't see the checkpoints where they'd stopped; they must have been made to be invisible.

A structure built into the side of a mountain was to his right. It was enormous and more fortified than most bunkers, and yet was designed for more than just use, as BOA buildings tended to be. This one had a flow to its construction. A style to its architecture that made it feel old. Ancient, even. He wasn't sure what to make of it.

The Agents led him toward the building while the ground transport hovered away to one of two smaller buildings built next to the first. Armories or garages, he guessed. They came to a massive doorway, nearly ten times his height and width. It opened automatically as they approached, revealing a long empty hallway with another door at the far end.

When they reached the second door, the two Agents stepped to opposite sides of the hallway and inserted ID chips into security panels with holographic displays located there. After a moment, the holographic displays went from yellow to green, and the second door opened.

The room behind the second door was large, circular. The walls were dark and smooth like polished stone. The ceiling had lights hovering in place, lighting the room faintly blue. Scores of mechs and femmes moved around the room, carrying data pads, physical files, and data crystals that related to Intelligence work. A circular desk was in the center of the room, operated by three mechs and three femmes, working holographic computers and talking to anyone who approached with questions.

On the surface, it all looked like a normal Station built in a classified location for the Bureau of Onyxian Affairs. But as he looked closer, he saw the slight discoloration in sections of the wall. The faint shine in certain floor panels. The unfinished portions of the central desk. All signs of recent matter recreation.

This BOA Station had been attacked not more than a jour ago. But by who? And why hadn't the Readiness Level of the rest of the BOA remained at 7, Situation Nominal?

This place was even more classified than he thought.

"This way," said one of the Agents escorting him, walking toward a hallway at the far side of the room.

He followed, but still asked, "Who attacked this facility?"

"No one."

"Then why am I seeing battle damage wherever I look?"

"This facility has never been attacked," said the second Agent.

He knew from the Agent's tone that he needed to drop the topic. He did, grudgingly, but he still mentally noted each sign of battle he saw. Why were the Agents lying? What happened here?

The Agents led him through the Station's hallways and rooms for nearly twenty klicks. Other BOA Agents and analysts gave brief glances as they passed by, but all were fleeting. Uninterested. They always returned to their work within moments.

At last, they came to a complex series of hallways that seemed to lead nowhere. The Agents moved them easily, seeming to follow a pattern he couldn't see. After twisting and turning their way through the maze of passages, they came bare hallway with a door at the far end. It looked not unlike the first hallway at the building's entrance. The only difference was the presence were the two rows of panels that seemed out of place.

Covers for weapon turrets, he thought. Unusual even for a BOA facility. Now they were getting to something that fit with how he was transported here.

As before, the Agents stepped over to security panels and inserted ID chips. But unlike the entrance, their action only led to scanners folding out of the walls and scanning the three of them. The scanners ran over them three times, then folded back into the walls. Then the door in front of them gave a hiss and opened.

The first thing he saw on the other side was another wall with a symbol of an iridescent triangle enclosing a seven-armed silver star. He found himself shocked by the sight of it.

Holy slag. The Knights were real. He thought they were legends. Myths. Figures in stories for sparklings, gone long before modern civilization.

That symbol said otherwise.

The Agents moved through the door, and he followed with as much eagerness as he allowed himself to feel. He now understood why he hadn't been allowed to read the document he signed.

Just beyond the wall was a room many times larger than any room in the BOA facility, and being used by as many people as he'd seen in the entire BOA facility. Its every feature was artistic in design—from its shape, its walkways, lights, and rows of support pillars spaced evenly around the room, slowly enclosing the space to a narrow point at the other side.

And just as he'd seen at the building's entrance, he saw signs of battle in the room. But this time, he saw that most were on the right side of the room, leading to a large, closed door flanked by four guards. A possible origin point for all the repaired damage he'd seen so far?

The many mechs and femmes working in the room didn't look like the others he'd seen since his arrival. Their armor, while still sporting the dark colors typical of Onyxians, was noticeably more advanced than his own. Futuristic. Both bulky and unhampering. The triangle and star symbol of the Knights was etched into their shoulder armor.

The Agents led him through the center of the room, gaining looks from the Knights. All of them had faceless battlehelms in place, leaving their optics and expressions a mystery. He found himself focusing on just following the Agents in front of him.

They walked through the defensive point at the far end of the room. It led to a short hallway which, in turn, led to a gravity lift leading upward. They took the gravity lift, and it led them into another short hallway with two Knights standing guard at a doorway. The Knights opened the door and waved them through.

The space behind the guarded door was a penthouse. The far wall was a giant, one-way window that overlooked the massive room they were just walked through. To the right was a living room, energon dish room, and a hallway. The far left wall held a series of portraits and a short staircase leading up to a elevated room that had its door closed.

The penthouse had a modern design with modern conveniences and features, but it was not expensively decorated as most penthouses tended to be. Most furniture he saw could be bought in any store on Onyx. The most valuable objects in the entire penthouse seemed to be the collection of portraits on the far left wall. Each portrait was of only a single mech or femme sitting in front of what appeared to be the window right in front of him, and each had been made with ancient oil-based paints. That alone made each painting worth thousands of Rubits. But with the level of skill they had been crafted with, along with the clear extreme age of most, made their true value orders of magnitude above that.

"You have an optic for art."

He turned to the deep voice. A towering mech was standing in front of the hallway, servos folded behind him. His heavy, imperial blue armor had gold trim around his shoulder-joints and chestplates, while the center of his chestplates themselves had a gold Primic rune etched there. Unlike the other Knights he had seen, this mech wore no battlehelm. His faceplate was long, with striking royal optics and another, different gold Primic rune at either side of his helm.

As soon as he saw the mech, he knew he was in the presence of someone who had seen a thousand of his lifetimes. Perhaps more. "Just checking the room, sir." He did not know what kind of rank the tall mech held, but he knew a leader when he saw one. No one who felt as old as this mech could be without great authority. And a leader within the Knights was _not_ someone to disrespect.

"Checking for threats." The unnamed mech nodded to the BOA Agents, who then saluted and left the room, door closing behind them. "You never enter a room without searching for daggers in the dark."

He frowned, unconsciously falling into a defensive stance. "You've been watching me."

"Do not be alarmed, Sub Commander Springer. We are the Knights; we watch everyone." The mech walked to the energon dish room and poured himself a cube of energon from a basic pitcher. High-grade, from the color. "Care for a drink?"

"On duty, sir."

"Traditional military rules have not applied to you for more than ten vorns."

"Force of habit, sir."

"Very well." The mech set the pitcher down and took a small sip from his cube, one servo still behind his backplates. "Have you come to a logical conclusion for why you were brought here?"

"Honestly, no sir."

"Try."

Springer took the word as an order. He went over what he'd seen during the cycle. The unusual document he could not read. The subtle signs of battle throughout the facility he now stood in. The fact the Knights of Mithrilium were _real_. "You're recruiting me."

"For what purpose?"

"A mission that will never be known beyond someone with a Tier-8 Clearance."

"Higher."

"Nine?"

The mech sipped his cube.

"Ten?"

The mech just gave him a short glance.

Springer nearly scoffed. Tiers higher than 10? He thought that was just legend in the BOA. Showed how good the BOA was at its keeping secrets. "Then, with all due respect, why am I here, sir? I'm Tier-8."

"No. You're Tier-10 as of this cycle."

So that's what that document had been. "Okay. Then what is my mission, sir?"

The mech gestured to the table in the living room. Springer moved to the table, and found a physical file there. He wasn't surprised it wasn't in digital form. The BOA may have been far ahead of the intelligence agencies on Cybertron and the other Moons, but sometimes information was too sensitive to be put in _any_ system.

The file was three pages in total. The first was covered in black ink. Redacted. The second most only _mostly_ redacted, with a few words left untouched. The final one, which Springer paid most attention to, was a photo with several short sentences below it. Calculations of the photographed subject's skills and physical abilities.

Which were also redacted.

This had to be a joke.

Springer looked up, and saw the mech had silently moved across the room and now stood on the opposite side of the table, cube still in one servo. "This is a Threat Assessment file."

"It is."

"And nearly all of it's been redacted."

"Correct."

"Then what use is it to me?"

"It shows you what your target looks like."

Springer glanced down at the file's lone picture, which was grainy and clearly taken from a great distance. The target was a Triple-Changer, like all Onyxians. Very dark armor, like the vast majority of Onyxians. Powerful build, like most Onyxian mechs. In all, about as useless as pictures came; it didn't even show the target's face. "Yes, from a distance, and from the back. That's not useful."

"Sometimes useless is all you can get." The mech finished his cube and slowly placed the empty cube down the table. "Be thankful my advisors convinced me to give you this much."

How was this _too much_? Springer suppressed the urge to sigh, falling back into soldier mode. "What did he do?"

"He get through Onyx's defenses."

Ah. That mech. Springer heard the official story in the news, but in his unit he'd also heard the mech who slipped through Onyx's famous defensive lines was in the military. And BOA. And a politician's son. And a CEO of a major corporation. Rumors were terribly unreliable. "What about that involves the BOA and the Knights?"

"The BOA prides itself on keeping Onyx safe. They want to find out how this mech was able to slip through their latest sensors and orbital cannons."

Springer's alarm bells went off at the response that was so typical of Spooks: give the official story until it is proven false. The mech hadn't even mentioned why the Knights would want him. There was a lot more to the _why_ , but Springer wouldn't find out unless there was no other option than to read him in. "He have a name?"

"Not one that will assist you."

"Location?"

"Unknown. We were tracking him once he landed on Cybertron, but we lost him in Kaon."

No wonder they lost track of this mech. Kaon dump, filled with countless places to hide on your own and just as many where you could hide in plain sight. In his own experience, Kaon was a nightmare for tracking a target.

"What is required of me, sir?"

"You have been placed in the top one percent of operators in the Combative Activities Department. You tell me."

Springer figured the mech would say that. "You want me to go to Cybertron alone, to not raise suspicions among the Cybertronians. Then you want me to go to Kaon. There, you want me to track this mech down and kill him."

"Close, but I cannot blame you for not seeing the true answer. I want you to go to Kaon, yes, but not alone. You won't last on your own."

Springer raised an optic ridge at that.

"Make no mistake, Sub Commander—I find that you are exceptionally gifted in war. But you will not be tracking an ordinary threat. Your target will be the most dangerous opponent you have ever faced. This is not an exaggeration or a jest. You will _not last_ if you go alone."

"So with a unit, then."

"Correct. A unit you build."

"Did I at least get the mission objective right?"

"No. You are to capture this mech alive when you find him. Assassination is not an option at the moment."

There was something in the way the mech said those words that gave Springer pause. He marked it as usual Spook behavior. "Anything else I should know?"

"No. If there is, I will tell you. Provided you accept the mission of course."

Springer caught the hint. "When do I start, sir?"

"Now." The mech placed a servo on top of a stack of files sitting in a chair on his side of the table. "Dossiers for potential recruits for your unit. You will need one hundred and twenty members. Pack them up and review them at your new living quarters. The guards will take you there when you are ready." He turned and went to the hallway where he first appeared.

"Who will I send requests to, when I decide on a recruit?"

The mech stopped and looked over his shoulder-joint. Springer knew from the look in the mech's optics that he understood the purpose of Springer's question. "You may call me Overlord. Quite a few of my Knights call me that. They think it amusing, partly because they believe I have no idea." Overlord vanished into the hallway.

Overlord, Springer thought. Fits with the personality type. Least he wasn't trying to enslave everyone.

He picked up the nearly useless file on his target, walked to the other side of the table, picked up the stack of other files, and left the penthouse.

Seemed he had some recruiting to do.

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 ***Checks mental notes* Huh. Seems we have just one more character to introduce, then it's off to the actual story. Provided, of course, on you all (See above Author's Note). This chapter was inspired by "Secrecy." Unlike the theme of last chapter, I tried to write in the theme for this one a lot more. Hope it showed.**

 **So, if you want me to continue writing this beyond the final introduction chapter, leave a review. If you don't, well, don't review. But be advised that if you _do_ want me to continue and just don't know what to say, I can't read your mind. Say anything, really - your random comment might be a lot more relevant than you think.**

 **Thank you all for reading.**

 **See you soon.**


	9. Accountant

**It only took me six months to update this. Wow. Usual round of apologies to any who have been waiting.**

 **Not much to say up here, despite my long absence. Life is life, and life is busy. However, this last week or two has seen me make some actual progress on my stories. Hopefully that keeps up.**

 **Seeker3 - Nope, not the Overlord you're used to. This one's _very_ smart, and doesn't do anything without calculation. Might get interesting later.**

 **Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.**

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He didn't like his job.

He didn't like the secrecy involved. The paranoia drilled into his helm as soon as he took the offer. The feeling that _far_ too many people held his title before him. The sense that every comm he received or interaction with a contact could signal his final moments of life if he messed something up. It stressed him so much he had to get medication from a medic.

Even then, he wondered if he may have done something wrong by going to a medic. What if that wasn't allowed? What if that compromised his position? What if it also compromised his contacts, the calls, the accounts? What would happen to him?

As he sat there, worrying, the comm on his desk beeped. He nearly jumped at the sound, but forced himself to relax. It hadn't come from the _other_ comm. This was legitimate business for his legitimate job. He answered. "Red Alert speaking."

" _Sir,"_ said Convoy, one of the mechs at the front desk of the building. _"I have three mechs here who say they have an appointment with you that was supposed to start three klicks ago. I have no record of them down here."_

"Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp—all of House Science?"

" _Yes."_

Red Alert had wondered why they were late. "Yes, they have an appointment. Send them up, and have IT take a look at your computer."

" _Yes to both, sir."_ Convoy ended the comm.

Red Alert's optics went to his desk, checking for imperfections. Data pads were stacked perfectly. Computers were at the ideal angle for a professional appearance. The metal plate displaying his name, job title, and qualifications was perfectly centered at the front of his desk. All was well.

He placed his servos on the top of his desk and stared at the door. It took him seventy-four micro-klicks to move from Convoy's desk downstairs to the elevator. Travel in the elevator took approximately nine klicks from the ground floor to Red Alert's. Moving from the elevator to Red Alert's office required an additional eight klicks and seventeen micro-klicks.

Accounting for the average height of Seekers, they would arrive at the elevator exactly one klick after Convoy ended the comm. The elevator was a fixed speed. However, finding his office would add travel time for them; no one expected the door leading to a windowless room was an office. No one expected a financial advisor from Ras Investments—a subsidiary of Sol Industries—to request a room that did not let in the inviting light displays of Crystal City outside.

No one expected the wall behind Red Alert to be false, either.

At last, after Red Alert's average travel time plus six klicks and twenty-two micro-klicks, there was a beep at the door. A request to enter. Red Alert stood, making sure to be behind the exact middle of his desk, and hit the button near his computer that opened the door.

The door slid open. Three mech Seekers were on the other side. All were nearly half again Red Alert's height. The one in the middle—Starscream—was light grey and red, with shining blue optics that held intelligence and warmth. The one to his right—Thundercracker—was deep blue and crimson, his dull yellow optics analytical and reserved. The last mech—Skywarp—was purple and black, and his green optics were those of a young prankster.

Red Alert made a mental note to check his office when they left for anything out of place.

"Glad to see you all," he said, bowing his helm. His voice was level and friendly. A result of the medication he took mere klicks ago. He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. "Come, sit."

"Thank you for meeting with us," Starscream said, sitting down in the middle chair in front of the desk. His armor looked freshly cleaned. Perhaps trying to show Red Alert he was a professional and taking his business seriously?

"Whatever I can do to help," Red Alert said. "Now, what—"

"Of course you want to help," Skywarp cut in, falling back into the offered seat with a thud and looking to Starscream. "And of course he met with us; we're paying him. Idiot."

"Enough, Skywarp." Thundercracker's voice was level and to the point, much like his personality. Red Alert liked him the best of the three brothers. He looked to Red Alert when Skywarp went silent. "Continue."

Red Alert gave Thundercracker a nod of thanks and looked back at Starscream. "Well, as I had been saying: you asked me to sell your inherited shares at Sol Industries and re-invest the capital into..." He looked at his computer to make sure he had the name correct; the company Starscream was looking to invest in was in the midst of a legal battle with Sol Industries over their domain name. "Vos Pharmaceuticals."

"Yes," said Starscream.

"And what prompted that decision on your end?"

"Their stock is low now, and due for a rebound."

It never ceased to amaze Red Alert how out of touch Nobles could be in how the Public Exchange worked. Starscream's ignorance was just another example. With how much they were given just through birth, they expected everything to go _exactly_ as they thought it would. This thought process did not typically last long when a Noble-controlled company flexed its political pull to ruin a Public company, as was happening with Vos Pharmaceuticals.

"I see." Red Alert opened a folder on his computer—a very _precisely_ organized folder, he had made sure—and displayed it on another screen visible to Starscream and his brothers. The folder contained the historic stock prices of twenty-five Public companies Red Alert had found similar to Vos Pharmaceuticals. "Tell me, what do you see here?"

Starscream looked at the screen for a moment, studying. "Stock prices from different companies."

"What else?"

"They're going down?"

Oh, why did Nobles need everything explained to them? "Each company listed here," Red Alert said. "Was once a promising, up-and-coming Public company dealing in medical care, arms, energy, or finance. Then they became caught up in a legal battle with a Noble-controlled company. Every last one of them went under after that."

"But none of them have Vos Pharmaceutical's sterling reputation for quality and honesty. Or its market share. How many of those companies controlled eight percent?"

"A true statement. However, there was one that had an equal market share before failing." Red Alert highlighted the aforementioned company.

The one he worked for: Ras Investments.

"'Those that are Born with Power, tend to Abuse it'," said Thundercracker, quoting from the _Ra_ ' _Qor_ , the oldest known book. Its author was still unknown.

Starscream stared at the screen for a long moment. Red Alert knew enough of Seeker wing movements to know he was conflicted. "So, if I invest in Vos Pharmaceuticals…"

"It will be like re-investing into Sol Industries," Red Alert finished.

"Okay, I'll do it."

Erm. What? Hadn't he been listening? "Excuse me?"

"I'd like to carry on with the investment." For some reason Red Alert didn't know, Starscream appeared _happy_ with this. Like this choice was the wisest and profitable he could make.

"Perhaps I should explain again…"

"No, no—you made your point. But what you're not accounting for is that Vos Pharmaceuticals' price has already tanked. It can't go any lower. Nor can Sol Industries purchase the entire company and phase it into theirs in a single night. Vos Pharm will still be on the market when that happens, and when it does, its price will go through the roof. I'll make the money back ten-fold."

Red Alert felt both anger and pity at what he was hearing. Anger in that his client was ignoring his advice, and pity in that he was watching a young mech throw his future away. Red Alert had seen it happen far too many times to far too many good, young people.

Some closer to him than others.

He had to try one last time. "I really cannot stress to you enough how unwise I believe that is. Sol Industries will not purchase Vos Pharmaceuticals right away. Their stock prices are down now, but they will go _far_ lower before Swindle makes that move. This investment will not help you. I believe it will ruin you."

Starscream smiled, wings twitching upward. "That's what every successful entrepreneur hears right before they succeed."

"Star'," Thundercracker started. "Maybe you should listen to him. He's been in finance and stocks longer than you have. Or Skywarp. Or me. It's likely he knows what he's talking about."

"No risk, no reward."

"Those stocks belong to us, too. Are you really about to risk all of our futures over this?"

Starscream rounded on Thundercracker. "Sire and Carrier made me executor of their estate." His voice had a bite to it that hadn't been there before. His optics holding fire that had been hidden beneath the surface. A fire that Red Alert saw too often in Nobles: pride. "This is happening."

Thundercracker's wings hitched, his jaw setting. He said nothing.

Starscream took a deep breath, then looked back to Red Alert. The fire in his optics was gone. "As legal owner of the assets of Lord Nautus, son of Airheat, ruler of the Estate of Steelgate and Noble of House Science—I hereby order the sale of _all_ shares from Sol Industries, and request investment into Vos Pharmaceuticals."

Red Alert did not visually react to the formal order, but on the inside he felt terrible. Another Noble who squandered their inheritance. More lives that would find their worlds changed forever.

Another failure on his part to convince them otherwise.

Slowly, with a sluggishness he only experienced when he was about to carry out requests from clients that he _knew_ would cost them dearly, Red Alert prepared to make the sale and new investment. All that was needed was the client's written permission. He took out a data pad and writing tool. "Sign here, here, and here."

Starscream did, his smile growing after each use of his signature. He placed the writing tool on top of the data pad when he was done.

Red Alert took the data pad back and transferred the signatures to the appropriate legal documents. "Okay. It's done. Within the next twenty-four breems, your shares within Sol Industries should have been sold. After another twenty-four breems, the resulting capital should have been automatically invested into Vos Pharmaceuticals. If they haven't, contact me and I will resolve whatever the issue is."

Starscream's wings twitched upward again, his smile wide and bright. "Thank you for your help in this matter. You've been very professional. I will be certain to tell your supervisor as much."

Red Alert just inclined his helm, trying to keep himself from looking too disappointed. Starscream wouldn't be saying such things, when Vos Pharmaceuticals went under with his entire fortune.

Starscream turned to Thundercracker and Skywarp. "This is cause for celebration. What do you say we head over to Prism, get some cubes?"

Skywarp perked up. "And see Nautica?"

"There will be a lot of femmes there, Skywarp."

"But will _Nautica_ be there?"

"I… How am I to know?"

Skywarp got up from his chair, moving immediately to the door. "Doesn't matter. Worth going just for the chance."

Starscream sighed and followed Skywarp out, but Thundercracker lingered. He stared at Red Alert, optics unemotional yet intense. Wings stiff and unmoving.

Red Alert shifted under the Seeker's gaze. "Is there something else you require, Thundercracker?"

"How bad will it be?"

"What, the stock crash?"

Thundercracker nodded.

Red Alert sighed. "It will be devastating to you and your family. You will go from prominent and wealthy Nobles, to beggars on the street." He saw no benefit in not being bluntly honest.

Thundercracker took the news stoically. "What can I do for them?"

Red Alert shook his helm. "There is little you can do. Starscream is the executor of your creator's estate."

"Not me, no. But I know my brother. I can persuade him, should the need arise. Just tell me what needs to be done."

Red Alert raised his optic ridges, surprised by how serious Thundercracker was. But he supposed that if he were in Thundercracker's position, knowing his elder brother was making a mistake that would harm their futures, Red Alert probably would be doing the same thing. More subtly, of course. And from the other side of a computer screen. And under an alias.

He needed to socialize more.

Red Alert leaned forward onto his desk. "Well, if there are any rare or collectable items in your estate that have significant monetary value, convince Starscream sell them to other Nobles while you can. You'll get good prices for them now, but once Vos Pharmaceuticals goes under…"

"They'll know we'll take any price," Thundercracker finished. "What else?"

"Use what capital you gain from those item sales to re-invest into Sol Industries. They consistently provide a return of 8% per orbital-cycle."

Thundercracker frowned at that. "Starscream won't go back to them. Not after selling every stock our creators had."

"Perhaps. Still, try to win him over. If you can't, suggest Eternal Technologies."

"Sol's rival? The one that's about to go under?"

"They won't go under," Red Alert said. "Their dip in stock price is only temporary. In the ten vorns, their stock price has dipped lower than it is now, only to rebound."

"What makes their rebound different than the one my brother bets on from Vos Pharmaceuticals?"

"The difference is Eternal Technologies is a Noble company, with a _long_ list of wealthy investors and supporters who are loyal to a fault. They will not let Eternal Technologies die; it is the only thing between a competitive market and total domination by Sol Industries. Swindle may have wounded them, but that wound is far from mortal."

Thundercracker nodded. "I will take your word on that. Is there anything else?"

"I'm afraid not. Selling your stock in Sol Industries has greatly limited your options."

"Then I will need to see that the options we do have don't fail." Thundercracker took out a Shanix chit. "How much will I owe for this additional session?"

Red Alert held out a servo, shaking his helm. "I will not accept payment. Just make sure you and your family don't end up like so many others in your social circle do."

Thundercracker returned the chit to his person. "I will. And thank you," he said. Then he followed the rest of his Trine out the door.

Once he left, Red Alert nodded to himself. He may not have been able to convince Starscream of his foolishness, but at least there was one brother in that Trine that understood the need to prepare. Perhaps there was hope yet for those th—

His comm rang.

Not the comm on his desk—out in plain sight and used for all manner of business he conducted for Ras Investments.

It was his _other_ comm. The one in his desk that no one else in the building knew of.

His anxiety spiked. His processor whirled. What was the call about? Was it an assignment, or had he made a mistake? What if he _had_ made a mistake? What then? What horrors would he be subjected to?

Calm down, Red Alert told himself. Take a breath. Be professional. Let the meds work. You'll be okay.

Red Alert took a breath, reached down into the desk drawer, and took out his disposable comm. He answered it on the fourth ring. Then he waited.

" _13\. 7. 2. 29. 4."_ The voice of the caller was a femme's. Full. Professional. Cold. He had never heard her voice before, but he also never heard from a contact more than three times. _"Purple. Green. Pink. Red. Blue."_ The caller hung up.

Red Alert placed his disposable comm back in the drawer, then remotely locked his office door. Then he set his status within Ras Investments' internal network to _UNAVAILABLE._ Then he moved to the back wall of his office—the false one—and moved an energon cabinet away from the corner of the room. He placed a servo against a panel in the wall that had been hidden behind the cabinet.

A soft hiss signaled the breaking of an air seal.

Then, quickly and silently, the back wall moved to the right, folding in on itself every twenty feet.

At sixty-feet by eighty-feet, the dark room behind the wall wasn't large. But it was all dead space in the building. Unused. Unmissed. Unmarked on blueprints.

Red Alert stepped into the room, and tapped a button just inside. The office wall moved back into place, causing the room to descend into darkness. He flipped on the light.

A hover chair was directly in front of him, surrounded on all sides by a series of high-end monitors and computers worth more than Ras Investments paid him in a five-cycle span. They were placed on desks, stands, and even mounted to the walls. All were liquid-cooled, and drew power from different systems in the building. One monitor was larger than the others, and was currently the only active screen.

He sat down in the chair and positioned himself in front of the large screen. He entered the cycle's password into the computer, and the rest of the monitors came to life. Data from public Exchange on Cybertron and the Moons lit up the monitors. Updated in real-time, the data was detailed, thorough, and wouldn't be available to the public _or_ the Nobles for another forty-eight breems.

Red Alert opened another tab within the computer system. Then he entered the password given to him by his latest contact, assigning each individual set of numbers with one of the provided colors, starting with the last and working up to the first.

A secure comm was established. His system read the other end as originating in Iacon, then Kaon, then Crystal City, and a dozen others following that. The signal was being bounced. _"Accountant,"_ said the same femme as before.

"Contact," Red Alert returned, the word meaning more in the context he used it. "What is the purpose of communication?"

" _Funds transfer for Cleaning and redistribution."_

"Account numbers?"

" _Transmitting."_

A progress bar appeared one of the screens near him. Red Alert moved his chair to that screen, entering a command to scan the data as it was coming in. He detected no viruses or malicious software. He let the progress bar complete, then he opened the file.

His optics widened.

The accounts in front of him were organized by Shanix amounts. The bottom four contained more than a million Shanix each. Not much, considering who was working with. But he wasn't paying much attention to the lowest accounts.

The top five had more than two _billion_ in them. _Each_.

Oh, if he messed this up…

" _Accountant?"_

Red Alert forced himself to snap out of it. "Just… A little surprised by the amounts," he said, and quickly took out his medication and took another dose.

" _This is the first set."_

There was _more_?! Holy slag. "Starting Cleaning process."

Cleaning was term used widely by the Underworld to refer to turning _dirty_ money into _clean_ money. The act was simple: receive a transfer of Shanix or other currency from a compromised account into a temporary, secure account; identify and eliminate any digital tracking codes attached to the currency stolen or procured through illicit means; create new, legitimate tracking codes for the funds; transfer the newly Clean money to an equally Clean account. That was essentially all he did in the Underworld; the rest of his activities were entirely legal.

Of course, that wouldn't matter, should he fail even one time in this task.

Information didn't tolerate _failure_.

Once he had finished the task of Cleaning, he said, "First set done. Account numbers for redistribution?"

" _Transmitting."_

Another progress bar appeared. Another scan revealed no viruses. Red Alert opened the new list of accounts and placed them next to the ones he had just Cleaned. Then he ran a program that randomly divided all the Shanix from the old accounts into the new ones. He deleted his logs of both sets of accounts once he was done. "Ready for the next set."

The Contact sent the next set of accounts needing Cleaning. Then another after that. And another. And Another.

In all, six sets of accounts were sent Red Alert's way, along with six sets of accounts to transfer their Shanix. The total of all the accounts was in the tens of billions. A hundredfold the combined total of _all_ his previous work for Information.

What was happening that had Information moving this amount of money?

"Last of the funds are Clean," Red Alert said, stretching his digits. Lot of typing since he entered the room. "Initiating final transfers."

The Contact was silent while the last accounts finished. Then she said, _"Excellent work, Accountant."_

Red Alert expected to see the channel had been closed when he turned back to the main monitor. But when he did, he found it was still active. The Contact was still there, just silent. That was unusual. "Contact?"

More silence. Then she spoke at last, _"Take a piece of advice, off the record?"_

Red Alert was instantly on edge. But he forced it from his voice. He worked in the Underworld. Those in the Underworld were tough, intimidating people. So was he. "Um… Sure…?"

Or not.

" _Keep a close optic on the news, and make sure your go-bag's always up-to-date."_

The Contact hung up.

Red Alert felt his paranoia kick up a notch.

What did that mean? Was he being targeted? Had he done something wrong? No, that couldn't be it. She had mentioned keeping an optic on the news. He couldn't do that if he was being targeted for elimination.

So, why did she offer the advice? What did she know that he didn't? What he should be afraid of right now? What had _her_ concerned enough to offer a off-the-record warning?

What was Information _planning_?

Red Alert took another dose of his medication, then shut down his computer system. Then he returned to his office, sat down, unlocked the door, and returned his status in the Ras Investments system to _Available_. All the while puzzling over the Contact's words. Thinking about what they meant for him. Worrying if he was going to find out the hard way.

He didn't like his job.

As he sat there, doing his legitimate work, Red Alert took a moment to turn on two of the other computers at his desk. He had the first computer display the camera at his door, standard for every employee of Ras Investments. The other three, strategically placed around his floor, were not.

The second computer he switched from standard functions to broadcast functions. He selected the employee Datavision network, entered his employee password, and picked his channel choices. He turned on the four major news stations. One quarter of the screen for each station.

He split his attention between work, his cameras, and the news for the rest of his shift.

* * *

 **Well, there we are. The nine major POV characters I had in mind for this story. I will be writing one more chapter on this at least, but beyond that I honestly don't know. I'll consider again once I have the last chapter written, whenever that is.**

 **This chapter was inspired by "Accountant". I saw the movie _The Accountant,_ and became inspired as a result. The idea for Red Alert being in the type of job I featured here was already in my head when I saw the movie, but the film helped refine the mental image and cut out the major commonalities - of which, funny enough, there were a lot - that my first idea for Red Alert had with the main character in _The Accountant_.**

 **Thank you for reading. If you liked this story, please share it with a friend. And if you _really_ liked it, share a comment.**

 **See you soon.**


	10. Ambiguous

**And here we are, another chapter. Not quite as long a wait this time. Progress.**

 **Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.**

* * *

Information saw all.

They saw the greed-filled actions of the Corrupt. The regretful crimes of the Desperate. The twisted atrocities of the Mad. The scarring battles of the Warriors. Not even the painstaking steps taken by the silent Knights could blind Information's gaze.

Theirs were the only secrets Information found worthy of keeping.

Information's inner sanctum was spherical and three hundred meters in diameter. Screens covered its every surface from floor to ceiling. Each displayed data from Information's various sources: operatives, cells, bugged comms, companies—both Public and Noble—street informants, and hacked systems. A hundred people could be placed in the room, each given just a small number of screens to constantly study, and still they would miss important details, events, and numbers.

Information saw all.

Red lettering appeared on one screen, and Information focused on it. The screen displayed an update from an Operative. The update contained video and audio files from various contacts working for the Operative. All were centered around the imminent war between Polyhex and the Shining Cliffs. Copies of strategies for battle. Footage from body cameras that showed what officer was located where. Financial activity suggesting suppliers and companies were preparing for an extended, total war between multiple city-states. Such activity suggested they planned to use the conflict between Polyhex and the Shining Cliffs to create greater chaos.

Where there was war, there were profiteers.

Information instructed Operatives to drain half of the transfers. Accountants would be roused. Money would be Cleaned. Angry Nobles and Rulers would scream as their investments vanished. Information would offer the currency to other parties—parties with goals opposite of those who initially moved the Shanix. To combat ambition, one needed balance.

As Operatives moved to carry out the order, Information focused on the other transfers. They had been Cleaned. Made to be hidden. Anonymous. Untraceable.

It took Information less than an three micro-klicks to identify their origins.

Two originated from Lord Renix, a minor Lord of the House of War. Information's file listed Renix as addicted to battle and combat. His motivation was most likely to create more for himself.

Nine came from the accounts of Baronet Slipstream, the sole heir to the fortune of her sire, Baron Straxus, fourth-in-line for House Infrastructure. Hers was a minor fortune among the Nobles. Her motivation would be contracts gained from a large, widespread conflict.

Twenty were from Councilor Ratbat. His motivations were infamously political. He would be hoping to use a war to gain influence among the Elder Council.

Dozens of others came from companies Noble and Public. Dozens more from other Lords, Barons, and Baronets of Houses such as Science, War, Intelligence, Health. Some even came from relatively passive Houses such as Knowledge and Exploration.

But nearly half of all transfers came from _him_.

High Lord Swindle. Third-in-line for House Commerce. A small mech who spent a lifetime looking up to everyone else. Now a warmonger who craved power and wealth above all else.

Information regretted not killing the mech when the chance arose.

That chance had come a centi-vorn ago. The then-Lord Swindle had just graduated from the Iaconian Academy with high marks in business etiquette and political science. He had sold his inherited shares of Eternal Technologies in favor of gaining capital to start his own company. He succeeded, despite the stacked odds against him. But that success had come from a lot of spilled energon. Enemies. Rivals. Friends. Family. Lovers. If they dared stand in his way to ascending to the top of the financial world, he ended them. He did not show mercy to anyone, no matter who they were to him, and he never left evidence that could prove his involvement.

But Information saw all.

Information had considered having killed Swindle back then, as the frame count kept climbing. Companies kept defaulting. City-nations kept threatening war. But the situation had been resolved without assassination. Swindle had gained both the title of High Lord and established Sol Industries as Cybertron's top corporation. Relative peace had returned. The balance was restored.

Now that peace was being threatened again. The balance was upset. High Lord Swindle's ambition was a problem. Not for Information, but the entire planet. The Moons. Perhaps even Onyx.

This was not acceptable. Action had to be taken.

And if not by Onyx, by their Knights, by Overlord, by their Destined One—then by Information.

Information sent a data packet to a multitude of field operatives. Inside, there were orders. Instructions. Details. Potential descriptions. They would assist the operatives in this task. This search. Information had learned from the mistakes in the past—committed both by Information and others who understood the fate of civilization rested on the shoulders of those in the shadows, not the light.

This time, Information would not fail in finding the Prime.

Not the mech that sat in the Ministry, old, frail, and disgusted by politics—no. _The_ Prime. The one who possessed a bit of the spirit of the Thirteen themselves. The one whose fate was to return them to the universe. The one destined to bring about a new Golden Age. Only through finding them would the race of Cybertronians and their ilk be restored.

Of course, it would not be an easy path. It would not be without violence. Disaster. War. The world of the Nobles and Rulers would not end quietly. But it needed to end. Information knew what was coming, just as the Knights did. They had all seen it in their dreams. All they feared. All that they dread. Everything they wanted to _disappear_.

They needed to be ready.

Information continued monitoring the operatives assigned to carry out the order, then focused once more on the hundreds of other concerns of the cycle. Battles, political and physical. Secrets lost and secrets found. People both ignorant and suspicious. Dangerous and harmless. Stubborn and flexible. Dead and living.

All data collected across Cybertron and the Moons was both relevant and irrelevant. Determining what data was important or otherwise came down to the intricacies they held. Rare was the one who could see even one such pattern

But Information saw all.

* * *

 **This chapter covers a tenth major character; however, I never intended on making them a main character, or even intend on having them play a role that requires frequent POV chapters. Still, Information's a lot of fun to write.**

 **This chapter was also based on the word "Ambiguous". In this case, Information is an ambiguous character in many aspects, including gender, motivations, and, really, true nature. Information was fun to write.**

 **Thank you all for reading. If you enjoyed reading, please share or recommend this to a friend or friends. And if you _really_ enjoyed reading, please leave a comment. They are the lifeblood of all writers, and they do not take long to leave.**

 **See you soon.**


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